Beach House
by LKY
Summary: After 'Survival' - Jim and Blair take a vacation to the beach


"I'm going down to the beach."  
  
"No."  
  
Blair zipped his backpack closed, hefting it once, like a man checking the weight. "Yes."  
  
"Sandburg."  
  
"Ellison."  
  
"Bad plan." Jim quickly pulled the pack out of his friend's unsuspecting hands. "You're not going."  
  
"Why not?" Blair swiped for possession again.   
  
"Be-cause," Jim explained in an easy drawl. He set the pack behind him, out of reach while keeping one hand on Blair's shoulder. "You're recovering from a gunshot wound, Chester." He pushed, hard enough to send Blair tilting backwards. The long-haired head bulls-eyed the pillow at the top of the bed.   
  
"Jim." Blair could turn a first name into a cuss word with the proper tone and delivery. The younger man tried to lever himself back into a sitting position. "Knock it off," he said with a growl.  
  
"We just drove seven hours." Jim held him down easily. "We have all week. Why the state of emergency here? If our roles were reversed, you'd have a freaking stroke if I suggested this."  
  
"It's calling to me, man," Blair said, his mood as cranky as Jim had ever seen. "Can't you hear the crash of the waves? I gotta see it. You can't ignore something like that. It's rude."  
  
"Sandburg, you are so full of it." Jim snickered and patted his friend's T-shirt covered chest. "Listen to me. You're not taking those stairs to the beach right now. We've got rain clouds in the sky, it's about to dump. You're going to rest for two hours –" He held up both hands when Blair opened his mouth to object. "– Okay, okay! One hour, tops. I'll wake you up when dinner is ready. Then we'll watch a movie or something."  
  
"Who made you my nurse, man?" Blair demanded.   
  
"Simon did. Didn't you read the memo? It starts off with 'Jim, take the kid down to the beach and stay in my cousin's cottage. He deserves it after all he did.'" Jim reached down and slipped off Blair rubber-soled slippers as he spoke, aware of the bemused look on the younger man's face. He lifted both feet onto the bed and continued to talk, keeping his tone even, slowing down the rhythm of each syllable, as if they had all the time in the world.   
  
Blair made a rude noise, which Jim ignored.  
  
"'What with him helping you track Quinn and putting up with those survivalist nuts knocking him around.'" He watched Blair's pathetic motions to mask a yawn and reached for the blanket folded at the end of the bed. "'And him helping you save me from Quinn and that girlfriend-from-hell, then he goes and gets all shot up, so he deserves a break.' You know, Chief. That memo." Jim drew the covers up to Blair's shoulders.  
  
"One stupid bullet hits my leg, man. That is not getting 'all shot up'," Blair mumbled.  
  
"Close enough. For a civilian, it's impressive," Jim said patiently. "You tired?"  
  
Blair was really fighting the yawns now. He blinked slowly, looking faintly surprised. "Yeah, I am. What's up with that?"  
  
Jim shrugged. "Your body is talking to you. Why don't you listen? I'll have sandwiches ready when you wake."  
  
Blair's eyelids acted like they'd been waiting for permission, closing almost immediately. Within a few minutes, Blair was snoring softly. Jim took a second to study the too-narrow face and pale looking skin. Blair might talk a good game, but he needed this week of rest. Jim doubted the energetic man even knew how to slow down long enough for the torn muscle and tissue to begin to heal.  
  
The next several days should prove to be interesting.  
  
Jim smiled. "Gee, Jim, wonder why I'm so sleepy?" He lowered his voice. "Because, Sandburg. I drugged your Pepsi." Snickering at a job well done, Jim stood. The rented Ford wasn't going to unload itself. He hadn't been kidding about the rain, either. He could smell it in the air.  
  
Blair woke to dark room. For a minute, he thought he was still in the hospital. He felt along the bed's edges. The mattress' width was right, but no rails. Then the long drive from Cascade to Long Beach came back to him.   
  
That's right. They were on vacation. Cool.  
  
He moved a little, experimenting with his leg and feeling the raw nerve endings waking up and checking in. Shit, shit, shit. He'd never sit through another movie where the bad guy shoots the good guy, only to have that same good guy continue to the last frame, saving the pretty girl, capturing the bad guy and single-handedly saving the town – all the while sporting some honking bullet hole in his leg or arm.  
  
He knew now what the movie studios did not: there ain't no such thing as a 'flesh wound'.  
  
He could still hear the soothing crash of the ocean. Blair squinted. It really was dark. Something told him he'd slept for more than an hour. More than two hours. Long enough to make finding the bathroom an important issue.  
  
"Jim?"  
  
No answer. How big was this place, anyway? Didn't matter, Jim could hear him on the other side of Grand Central Station. Damn, he really needed those crutches. He remembered hobbling into the cottage with them when they'd arrived. Where were they? For that matter, where was the bathroom?  
  
"Jim!"  
  
Bright light bounced off the back of his skull before he could slam his eyes closed.   
  
"Sorry, Sandburg," Jim's voice spoke. "You bellowed?"  
  
"Need the head." Blair squinted one eye open. Jim stood next to his bed in a pair of loose fitting sweatpants. The older man yawned and scratched his flat stomach before reaching down.  
  
The crutches had been on the floor, next to the bed. Okay, next time Blair would let his fingers do the walking first, then call out. Still, it was much easier when Jim helped. In no time, he was hoisted to his feet and shadowed every step of the way down a short hallway with some sort of whitewashed paneling and into a small bathroom.   
  
"No light," Blair muttered. A small seashell nightlight glowed above the sink; the soft pink tones were enough to see by.  
  
Jim squeezed into the bathroom first and lifted the lid to the toilet, pausing before he raised the seat. He looked back. "Sit or stand?"  
  
"Sitting." Blair felt his face warm. He wrinkled his nose. "Might wanna dial..."  
  
"Way ahead of you." Jim patted his shoulder as he left.  
  
Afterwards, Blair washed up and opened the door. Jim stood just outside, shoulder leaning into the wall, his arms crossed. He looked like a dozing sentry. Blair wanted to snicker, but his leg was giving him too much grief. Damn it, anyway.   
  
"You just got out of the hospital, Sandburg. Give it time."  
  
"I hate when you do that, man."  
  
"What?"  
  
They were halfway back to the room. It was weird being in a strange house and not knowing more than a small bedroom, a short hallway and the bathroom. Blair wanted to explore, but moving hurt too much.  
  
"You're reading my thoughts or something. Get out of my head." Blair instantly felt bad; he'd sounded too harsh. Jim had to know it was the pain talking, not him.  
  
Jim was chuckling and Blair felt okay again. It was one thing to tick off your roommate when you're healthy, but, downright stupid when you can't manage to take a dump on your own without falling flat on your face.  
  
Jim took away the wooden crutches and eased Blair down to the bed in a single fluid motion that left him confused. Did Jim just pick him up? The blankets were being replaced just as a mighty yawn rumbled up his windpipe and stretched his jaws. The room was dark by the time he finished.  
  
"Jim?"  
  
"Um?"  
  
"Just kidding... 'bout that head thing."  
  
"Okay."  
  
Damn, he was sleepy. He couldn't be sure if his eyes were open or closed.  
  
"Jim?"  
  
A sigh. "Yeah?"  
  
"You can't do that, right? Get into a guy's head?"  
  
"Okay, Sandburg. No more mixing that weird herbal stuff with your pain meds. You get too squirrelly."  
  
Frowning into the darkness, Blair turned that over in his mind. That totally made no sense. "No takin' meds for pain, 'member?"  
  
"Go to sleep, Chief."  
  
Jim woke a few hours later to faint morning light. The beach house had a lot of windows; small panes of glass stacked side by side and one on top the other to form wide vistas. The view to the west captured the Pacific Ocean. Last night the windows had been dingy with neglect, causing Jim to hunt down some cleaner and soft rags. After they sparkled again, Jim had enjoyed just sitting and looking out at the waves while the rain fell.   
  
The place only had one bedroom. Simon's cousin used it as a personal retreat, apparently, when he needed solitude. But the sofa had a decent fold out bed which Jim claimed. A wide fireplace with an insert lined one wall. The living room had the usual seashore decorations with old photographs of shipwrecks in dark frames and ink drawings of lighthouses. His sofa/bed, a rocker and a heavy wood 'Morris' chair completed the room's furnishings. A short napped light gray rug ran from wall to wall.   
  
Returning the bed back into a sofa, he headed for the bathroom. He checked on Blair and found him asleep, then used the toilet, threw a couple handfuls of cold water on his face and decided a run was in order.  
  
Jim dressed in gray shorts with a draw string waist. Adding the tank-top t-shirt from yesterday and a light windbreaker, he donned clean socks and laced up his running shoes. He took a moment to test each weather worn wooden step leading to the deserted strip of sand. The stairs seemed solid, but way overdue for a fresh coat of paint. Maybe he could do the honors, a payment of sorts for free use of the beach house.  
  
Stretching before the run, Jim dialed down his sense of touch. Heavy fog brought a light mist that chilled. The tide was on its way in. The briny smelling surf blended into the fog so completely, even Jim's enhanced sight had difficulty finding the horizon. Feeling loose enough to start, Jim jogged down to where the waves kept the sand moist, a perfect feel under his feet. He ran south to where he knew the cliffs that separated him from Fort Canby State Park waited.   
  
Fifteen minutes later a sheer face of rock rose out of the mist. Jim touched the rock for luck, turned and sprinted north; pouring everything he had into the run. His toes dug into the sand, throwing bits into the air behind him. Knees rose and fell in rhythm, arms swung like pistons. He felt his heart power up to supply the much needed oxygen to his working muscles.  
  
He was still running full-bore as he passed the stairs leading up the low raise to the house. Another bluff would stop him further north. Could he keep this pace up until he reached it?  
  
An hour later Jim climbed the steps back to the house, his clothes bathed in sweat. He could hear the light snores telling him Blair was still asleep. He'd promised sandwiches last night but hadn't been able to bring himself to actually wake Blair up. He'd needed rest more than food. Chances were he'd wake up starving, though. Jim had better be ready.  
  
Robert Banks believed in comfort. Jim had noticed that right off. The showerhead had the massage attachment and he took the time to enjoy every setting. After dressing in fresh, clean sweats he went to check out the kitchen. He'd taken inventory of the decent looking gas range and roomy refrigerator yesterday as he'd unpacked the groceries. More of those old fashioned small paned windows were in this room as well. The house did not seem to have a dark corner, even with this fog. It was a good thing they were secluded between the two coastal bluffs, because none of the windows sported curtains, either.   
  
Jim started a pot of oatmeal. The freezer held an assortment of coffee beans. He had picked a bag of dark roast out last night and left it to thaw to room temperature. A burr grinder and fancy espresso machine sat on the countertop.   
  
"Jim."  
  
Ah, the monster awakes.  
  
But Blair was in much better spirits. Knowing what type of problems Blair was going to have with even the mundane tasks of taking a shower, they'd brought a few items with them from Cascade. One was a stool made for sitting inside bathtubs. Jim got it in place and helped Blair get set up. A fresh change of clothes waited on the closed toilet seat lid. After making it clear Blair was not to try getting out by himself, Jim left him alone to wash and went into the kitchen to put the final touches on breakfast. When the sound of running water stopped, Jim waited until he heard Blair's call. He found his roommate dried off, long wet hair combed back and wearing a pair of heavy flannel shorts and a long sleeved T-shirt displaying a John Deer Tractor logo, his latest thrift store treasure. Jim helped him step out of the bath tub and guided him back to the twin-sized bed.  
  
"Did I eat last night?" Blair asked as Jim worked on redressing his injured leg. He leaned back on his elbows.  
  
"Nope, you were sleeping pretty hard," Jim said. "I've got oatmeal and some fresh fruit waiting for you in the kitchen."  
  
"Bagels?"  
  
"I suppose we can add that to the menu. Roll over for me."   
  
With a sigh, Blair lowered himself down to the mattress and rolled onto his belly.   
  
"I don't like this exit site, Sandburg," Jim said.   
  
"I wasn't too fond when it happened either, man."  
  
Jim ignored him as he gently touched the red and puckered skin around the sutures. The doctor had approved Blair getting his leg wet, so that wasn't the problem. He'd need to keep a close eye on it.  
  
"So? What's wrong with it, man?" Blair was twisting his torso, trying to see.   
  
"You might have overworked your leg yesterday. The skin around your stitches looks inflamed," Jim said as he ripped off a few sections of white tape.   
  
"How's that even possible? I've only been out of the hospital a whole day and a half. And you won't let me do anything."  
  
"Not true, I stopped at that flea market when you asked yesterday."  
  
"After I begged."  
  
"The point is; I stopped." With new bandages in place to Jim's liking, he picked up the roll of Kling. "Okay, on your back now."  
  
"Besides," Blair continued as he followed instructions. "I only just started looking around. You practically dragged me back to the truck."  
  
"I let you buy stuff. Bend your leg."  
  
"Okay, some stuff. You let me buy some stuff." Blair rose up, using his elbows to prop his upper body. "Which reminds me, did you bring that bag in?"  
  
"I did."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
"Welcome." Finished, Jim used tape to hold the end down. "Ready to eat?"  
  
"Do I get to leave the room?"  
  
"Yes, smart ass. That's about as far as you get to go."  
  
"JIM!" Blair flopped back down on the bed, throwing an arm over his eyes. "It's like you're some demonic doctor from hell, man. I'm being punished, huh? This is because I cheated on that spelling test in the second grade."  
  
Jim laughed. "Finished, Mr. Drama King?"  
  
"Ah oh, bad news, Sandburg."  
  
Blair sat in a rocker, looking out the living room window at the whiteness. It was driving him nuts not being able to actually see the ocean. Here it was, already ten in the morning and the fog hadn't lifted.  
  
"What?"  
  
Jim knelt in front of an ancient looking television with a 'rabbit ear' antenna on top. "No reception."  
  
Yep, definitely that spelling test. Blair frowned, looking back at the fog. Or maybe that microscope theft, or the time he told Naomi he didn't have a clue who broke her favorite glass bead necklace.  
  
No, wait. That really wasn't his fault. That loud mouthed kid in the commune with the buck teeth broke it. Course, Blair knew how it happened. He couldn't remember now why he'd kept quiet.  
  
"The good news is – I found the instructions for that espresso machine. Want to try?"  
  
Now they were talking. "Sure!"  
  
"Good, I'll bring you the booklet."  
  
"Wait, it's got a whole booklet?" Blair shifted in the chair. He hated reading manuals. "I'm more of a 'push the button and see what happens kind of guy', Jim."   
  
"Not this time. I don't feel like telling Simon why his cousin needs a new coffee maker." Jim walked in with a thick pamphlet. "Here. You warm enough?"  
  
"Yes, mother." Blair flipped through the pages. It wasn't as bad as he'd feared. Three quarters of the booklet was printed in Spanish, French and German. "If I do this thing for you, can I go down to the beach today?"  
  
"For me?" Jim raised an eyebrow. "How'd this turn out to be for me? I like my coffee drip, Mr. Latte-man."  
  
Mimicking his friend's comment while tossing his head, Blair started reading. Part of his brain thought about Jim.  
  
Jim was simply amazing. Blair knew he shouldn't be surprised, he'd seen this side of the man before, the first time with Lash. Only on that trip Blair had been too freaked out to recognize what was happening, to see the quiet arrival of yet another side of Jim's multiple faceted character. The guy was so there for him. It wasn't until Blair felt normal again and back into a regular routine of school and ride-a-long that he was able to look back and see how Jim had taken care of him. Then with the Ice Man case, Jim stopped everything to drag Blair back to the loft and fix him up, even though Blair wanted to go after Amber.   
  
Blair still felt a twinge of guilt over that case. God, he'd screwed up.  
  
He forced himself to concentrate on the manual in his hands. After a few minutes, he had the basic concept down. He hobbled into the kitchen on crutches and talked Jim through the procedure. Jim found the bottles of syrup in a cupboard. They located the stainless steel milk pitcher and a thermometer.   
  
"Says the milk has to be cold."  
  
Jim went to the fridge. "Cold, got it."  
  
"Prime, steam, prime, brew. We gotta wait for the green light."   
  
"One at a time, Chief." Jim poured the milk. "What are we making first?"  
  
"Ah." Blair eyed the bottles. "Simon's cuz has about everything, doesn't he? How about a mocha?"  
  
Jim's first mocha latte was deemed a complete success. Blair even let Jim take a sip. Jim agreed. They got more daring on the next one and Jim ended up calling it a 'Jim's special'.  
  
Blair took a tentative sip. His eyes widened. "Hey, you're pretty good. Tastes a little like a Mounds candy bar. You know, with your sense of taste, we could create some bodacious flavors. The Blair and Jim espresso chain. We'll do to coffee what Ben and Jerry did to ice cream!"  
  
Jim finished cleaning the machine, running water through the steam wand and dumping the grounds into the trash before taking a seat at the kitchen table to enjoy his creation. "Why are we calling it the Blair and Jim? Why not the Jim and Blair?"  
  
"Alphabetically." Blair smiled innocently, he hoped.  
  
"Riight."  
  
"So, we're going down to the beach after this, right?" When Jim pulled a face, Blair continued. "Oh, come on, man! Just a few steps, already. I'll take them real slow and rest, like, every fifth stair or something."  
  
Jim looked like he was weakening.  
  
"It's therapeutic. Then I'll..." He looked around the kitchen for inspiration.  
  
"Take a nap?"  
  
Slapping the table lightly, Blair snorted. "I just woke up!"  
  
Blair acted like a prisoner getting a few hours of 'yard' time. He managed the stairs without too much grief. Working the crutches proved to be a trick once they got to the soft sand, but Blair prevailed.   
  
"There's a place over here we can sit," Jim said.  
  
A rest was definitely in order now. Blair's face was pale by the time they reached the large log. He released a guarded sigh of pleasure as he sat on the chair-size piece of driftwood, bleached white from long years of exposure.   
  
"I knew this was a mistake," Jim couldn't help but grouse, taking a seat next to his friend.  
  
"Shaddup and let me enjoy."   
  
Blair's face had a few pain lines, but he seemed content to sit.   
  
The fog was beginning to lift. They could see the surf all the way out to the horizon. The waves created ribbons of white as each curl crested, forming terraces on a liquid slope. The ocean reflected the gray colors of the clouds above, with hints of dirty green-blue. The onshore wind played with Jim's jacket and he took a moment to zip it up to his neck.  
  
To the north, they were separated from the city of Long Beach by a cliff that jutted out into the sea. The city's beach allowed vehicles to drive on it, making it a popular summer destination. But this small stretch of sand was protected from cars, and their borrowed beach house was the only residence that accessed it. South of their location, they could see the lighthouse near the edge of a high precipice, standing tall in the thinning fog. Blair stared at it with a dreamy look on his face. "North Head Lighthouse. You know they call these guys the sentinels of the coast, right?"  
  
"Ah huh."   
  
"The original lights were just oil and wick. It was the specially designed glass lens that allowed the light to travel far enough out to be seen by ships." Blair turned back to the ocean. He lifted his chin and took a deep breath. "Wow, Jim. It's nice here."  
  
"Good. Glad you like it."  
  
He turned, regarded Jim with one of his assessing looks. "How come we're here, again?"  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
Blair blew a short raspberry. "I know you, man. One day – two, tops – after a bad case and you're back in the game. Now, here we are. Ten long days. No TV, no Wonderburger, no Mexican take-out, no nothing. What's up?"  
  
"We've got espresso."   
  
Blair rolled his eyes, turning back to the west. "Fine, be all closed mouthed."  
  
Damn this guy knew how to guilt a person. Jim rubbed his forehead, searching for words. "In case it escaped your attention, the last case was more than just bad. You got shot."  
  
"True, and that officially sucked rocks." Blair rolled his shoulders. "But I can heal just as well in the loft."  
  
"Hardly." Jim crossed his arms. "Know you, Sandburg. You'd be doing anything and everything – except resting."  
  
"So, you kidnap me and bring me here." Blair grinned. "That so.... sweet! You big 'ole soft cop-guy hero-man."  
  
"Hey, brain-dead, I need a vacation, too. This isn't all about your spoiled butt." Jim tried scowling but Blair was acting like such a goof he had to laugh. "Okay, okay. Got the picture. I'll lay off the Florence Nightingale act." He raised a finger to the gray sky. "Within reason."  
  
Blair straightened his spine in sudden comprehension. "Oh, now I get it. This is to make up for the helicopter ride from hell! Not even close, Jim. I still owe you, big time, for that one."  
  
"Like I'm at fault?" Jim touched his own chest in disbelief. "That was standard operating procedure. We were in the wilderness. You needed surgery. Not my call, Junior."  
  
Blair slumped, his face softening. "Yeah, I know. Shit, though. The solution was worse than the problem. That was one seriously terrifying ride." The quiet statement spoke volumes.  
  
"Sorry, buddy."  
  
"Yeah." Blair's gaze remained fixed on the waves, his eyes unfocused.  
  
Jim let him have some time, trying not to check his watch every sixty seconds. It was hard. Finally after a full five minutes, he couldn't stand it. "Warm enough?"  
  
Blair snickered. "Okay, Florence. Let's head back to the house."  
  
It took three times as long to reach the beach house than the trip out to the log. Blair tried to keep his game face on, but his leg was hurting so bad he was starting to wish he'd never verbally strong-armed Jim into this trip. Halfway up the stairs he was forced to lean on Jim's arm and stop to catch his breath.  
  
Jim was a rock. Thankfully, a silent one.  
  
Blair studied their new temporary home, a nice visual distraction. The house was small, maybe a thousand square feet and painted a gray-blue. The side that faced the ocean was the width of the living room and all windows, those cool old-fashioned ones that Blair used to dream about. Somewhere, as a kid, he'd seen a house decorated for Christmas. Each small square pane had a little fake snowdrift in the corner. It looked so neat to a six-year-old Blair that he dreamed of having his own place and putting those windows in special, just so he could fix them up the same way.  
  
The roof was metal, which totally made sense. Blair got the feeling the rainfall here was measured in feet, not inches. Off the living room entrance, a spacious deck ran the house's width. Someone had taken the time to trim the deck's edge with rows of driftwood standing on end from the sand like little soldiers.  
  
"Ready?"  
  
Blair gathered his waning strength and nodded. They began the climb again, Jim's steadying hands supporting, balancing, keeping him from falling.  
  
"Jim?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Don't let this go to your head, okay?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Don't think I should have tried this today."  
  
"I knew it."  
  
Blair was gasping by the time Jim got him into the small bedroom. He didn't object when Jim helped him off with the sweat pants, sat him on the bed and began to unwrap the bandage. He already knew that look. If Jim didn't like what he was about to see, Blair was looking at a trip to the hospital.   
  
"Not too bad."  
  
Miracle of miracles. Blair felt like cheering, except for the little problem of needing all his strength to keep the tears from falling; pain shouldn't sneak up on a person this way, it just wasn't fair.  
  
"I'm bringing you some food. You can take a pill and rest." Jim was returning the wrap to its original position and tearing a new strip of tape off with his teeth.   
  
"Can't, man." Blair got out through clenched teeth. "Not gonna hold anything down right now." He was being pivoted. Jim had his feet lifted, slipping off the sneakers with ease. Blair let his arms go limp and he fell back against his pillows. He closed his eyes for just a second.  
  
"Here."  
  
Jim was back with saltine crackers and hot tea. The smell of lemon and honey did wonders for his mood. Blair rolled up on one elbow. After the tea was half drunk and several crackers eaten – boy, they tasted good – Jim laid a white pill in Blair's palm. He popped it into his mouth and chased it down with more sweet tea.   
  
"Need to use the head?" Jim took the empty mug back. He stood up.  
  
"Nah. I'm fine."  
  
"Okay, then. This time I promise to wake you for dinner. Rise up." He worked the bunched up blankets out from under Blair and smoothed them out on top. "You set?"  
  
"Uh huh." Eyes already shut, Blair wondered if it was the pill already taking over, the fact he was off his damn leg, or that Jim's friendship was better than stupid windows with fake snow. Whatever the reason, the pain seemed so much more tolerable. "Thanks, Jim."  
  
While Blair slept, Jim took a look around. The house didn't have a garage, but he found a small shed outside, a few feet away by a stand of stubby pines twisted by years of growing in the wind. It was secured with an impressive lock. Robert had his affairs in order, with labels as needed. In the utility room with a stacked washer-dryer combo, Jim found a tiny board filled with small, gold hooks hanging on the wall. Some hooks held keys. One silver key had a tag labeled 'tool shed'.  
  
Inside the shed Jim found tools, fishing equipment suitable for surf fishing – now, that was an idea that Jim hadn't thought of – and everything he needed for painting the steps. Except, of course, paint. That wasn't a problem. He'd seen a hardware store in Ilwaco. Until then, he would prep.   
  
One stair had moved a little when they'd both stood on it. Jim rummaged around a bit and found some suitable nails. He spent fifteen minutes getting that fixed then swapped the hammer for a scraper and went to work. The forecast all week was morning fog, but decent afternoons until next weekend. If Jim was lucky, he'd have the stairs completed by then.  
  
It was easy to let his worries drain out. The constant sounds of the waves soothed. The seagulls bobbed on the water. Flocks of tiny sandpipers chased the tide up and down the wet sand as they foraged for food. Once a large, awkward looking Coast Guard helicopter flew overhead, following the coast north. Jim paused in his work, zooming in on the crew. A kid was flying the expensive machine; he looked nineteen, but was probably in his mid-twenties.   
  
The older Jim got, the younger the world looked.  
  
He was on his final stair when the phone rang. Since he'd started at the bottom, he only had to cross the deck and open the door to answer.   
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Hey, Jim. How's the place working out?"  
  
"Good, Simon. Fantastic, actually." Jim could hear Simon's office chair squeak and knew he was kicking back, probably enjoying a cigar. "Thanks again. And thank Robert for us. It's perfect."  
  
"I will. He's harping about not getting to enjoy it as much as he used to. Damn shame a man has to work that hard to afford stuff he doesn't have time to enjoy, ya know?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"How's Sandburg?"  
  
"Hurting. He's asleep."  
  
"Hurting? Why? What he'd do?"  
  
Jim smiled at the spontaneous inquisition. "He just insisted on doing too much. I'm keeping an eye on things."  
  
"You'd just damn well better, Ellison. You heard the surgeon. You don't mess around with that kind of injury."  
  
"I'm on it, Simon. I'm not letting Blair screw up his life with a limp. So, you still coming down?" Although Jim had no idea where the man was going to sleep. Someone was going to have to share a bed or sleep on the floor.  
  
"Nah, that's why I'm calling. Thought I'd get away, but Joan's tossed a monkey wrench into the plan. Darryl's got a scouting trip he needs to attend, I'm taking him."   
  
Simon sounded anything but aggravated. In fact, Jim could hear the smile over the phone lines. "Not a problem. Maybe we can plan an outing later in the year."  
  
"Sure, meanwhile your job is to keep Sandburg off that leg."  
  
"Right."  
  
"I'll call later this week."  
  
"Right."  
  
The house was quiet until just before four. Jim found a paperback cache that ran close to his own taste and enjoyed a long read. Sounds of movement from the small bedroom pulled his attention away from the adventures of Dirk Pitt and NUMA.  
  
A rustle of cloth, a soft snort, a sniffle.  
  
"Umm..." A yawn. Then the teasing voice with a half decent English accent. "Boy? Oh, Boooy! Where's my sandwich?"  
  
Blair was in a feisty mood.  
  
Setting the book down, Jim strolled into Blair's room. "Feeling all perky, are we?" He smiled at his friend. "If you had any idea how tempted I am to take a picture of your bed head and show it to your co-eds..."  
  
Blair looked properly repentant. "I'll be good. But I'm starving."  
  
"How's the leg?"  
  
"Sore, but doable. Did I mention I'm hungry?"  
  
"Twice, in fact."  
  
"Let's make it three times. Can we make subs? Do we have BBQ chips?" The covers were tossed back and Blair rolled up to sit with a minor grimace.  
  
"Yes and yes. It's your lucky day." Jim held the crutches ready.  
  
"I'm swinging by the bathroom first. No, no. I'm good. I'll meet you in the kitchen."   
  
Jim watched him settle the padded crutches under his arms. He did look steady and he had promised to back off some. "Okay. I'll get them started."  
  
Cold cuts, romaine lettuce, and strips of red bell peppers made a fine looking sandwich. Jim used extra mayo on his and dumped the entire bag of chips into a plastic bowl. He carried the early dinner into the front room and set it down on a coffee table.  
  
Blair was thumping into the room. "Wow! Check out that view!"  
  
The fog was gone. The sky a perfect blue, lighter when compared to the waters of the Pacific Ocean. Yeah, it was the same ocean that fed Cascade's bay, but down here it just looked different.  
  
"God, it's so powerful."  
  
Okay, that might be the word Jim was looking for.  
  
"Sit. You can eat and watch the waves."  
  
Blair took the padded chair. It was turned toward the window, warmed by the evening sun. Later they might start a fire. Blair ate, his eyes rarely leaving the view. They had a limited supply of Snapple drinks, but Jim decided to dip into it for two peach flavored. The way the first sub was going down, he offered the younger man half his and went back to build more.  
  
"Jim?"  
  
"Yeah?" He had to raise his voice to make sure it carried back to Blair.  
  
"Can you bring that bag from the flea market?"  
  
The following hours were just as quiet as when Blair had been sleeping. They read, watched the sun set, started a fire, read some more with the chairs repositioned to face the fireplace, made two more lattes, and read until late.  
  
Blair finally yawned and set down the book he'd bought from the little old lady at the outside market yesterday. "Tell me how it's possible I'm tired again?" He leaned over and rummaged around in the bag where more new used books were stored.   
  
"You're recovering. That takes a lot of energy," Jim said. He was stretched out on the sofa, one arm folded behind his head, the other holding his paperback.  
  
"Ah oh." Blair's searching hand pulled out some papers. "What's this?"  
  
Jim dismissed the papers and returned to Pitt's getaway. The trouble this character managed to get into was legendary.   
  
Blair was still making discovery noises. "There's stuff in here I didn't buy."  
  
"Probably left in the paper bag and already there when the lady loaded your books."  
  
"Okay, fine, but they're copies of an old journal, Jim. Real, real old from the looks of it."  
  
Jim looked up. "Is it dated?"  
  
"Not sure. Hard to read. The spelling is weird, lots of references to animals and plants and..." His voice trailed off.  
  
Jim returned to his book and Blair grew quiet, only the rustling of paper and an occasional mutter being heard. The fire started to lose heat after a while. Jim set his book face down on the carpet and got up. Blair hadn't moved. There wasn't that many pages and he knew the kid wasn't a slow reader.  
  
"How many times are you going to read that?"  
  
He was waved off.  
  
After tossing a few more pieces of wood in, Jim wandered back into the kitchen and snagged a package of peanut butter cookies and poured two glasses of orange juice. He set the snack down on the coffee table.  
  
"Jim, this is amazing, man. You know what I think it is?"  
  
"Nope."  
  
"Copies of a journal by early explorers, maybe two hundred years ago. Check it out." Blair was leaning out to show his find.   
  
Jim saw more than flowing words. There were drawings of a coast line. Whoa, it did look interesting. He held out a hand. "Let me see that."  
  
Blair surrendered one page, keeping the others as he sipped his drink. "Look at that second to last paragraph. What do you think?"  
  
Jim read. The script was hard to follow. The words more phonetically spelled than accurate. One phrase caught his eye - 'run the gauntlet'. Sure enough, the writing seemed to describe a man being punished by running down two rows of men with sticks and belts that swung as he passed.   
  
"What the hell is this?"  
  
Blair was grinning. "I think someone got their hands on one of the Lewis and Clark journals, man. They made photocopies. I'm just not sure which journal this is from. I've read them all and this one doesn't seem to fit to what I remember."  
  
"You've read all the journals?" Jim looked down at his friend. Why was he surprised? "How many are there? Two?"  
  
"No, actually, there were at least four men from the corps that kept a journal. Lewis was the better known for details and stuff, but he wasn't very good about making daily entries. I know his handwriting the best; this isn't his. Maybe it's Gass."  
  
"Patrick Gass, right?"  
  
"Yeah. He lived the longest, wrote tons even after the expedition."  
  
Jim sat, handing the page back. "You know, there's an interpretive center down by the North Jetty, off the Columbia. Maybe I can show this around and see what they say. I'll be going in for some paint and groceries tomorrow." As soon as he'd said the words, he knew he'd opened the door for a new argument. "No way, Chief. Forget it."  
  
"Jiiimmm."  
  
"No, you're staying put. Your leg, remember the walk to the beach?"  
  
"I'll use that wheelchair you brought down."  
  
"No."  
  
"I'll stay off the leg, I swear."  
  
"Nah uh."  
  
"I'll tell Simon who really broke his favorite coffee cup."  
  
"You promised you wouldn't."  
  
"See your problem, man? You underestimate a researcher's desperation when he's gotta know something."  
  
"Little shit."  
  
Blair followed through with his promise and stayed off his leg. The wheelchair folded flat and stowed neatly behind the seat. Because they'd need more milk for lattes and Jim had a feeling the time at the interpretative center might be lengthy, he saved the grocery run for last.   
  
Protected by Cape Disappointment, Ilwaco hugged a wide bay on the Columbia River's northern shore, tucked out of reach from the famous Columbia bar, some of the roughest waters known to boaters. Ilwaco had been a fishing village, boasting a healthy economy when the commercial fishing industry was hot, once upon a time. Then around the late seventies there was a major downturn. The residents were forced to change their ways or starve. Some moved, some stayed and struggled. A turn toward tourism and charter fishing looked promising. Life returned to the peeling and weather beaten homes.   
  
Jim could smell the crab markets as they drove. Maybe they'd pick up some fresh crab for dinner today. The corner hardware store was in process of getting a face lift. Jim parked on the street, told Blair he was only going to be in a second and it wasn't worth getting the wheelchair out, and went in.  
  
The owner, an old man with a fisherman's complexion of tough hide-like skin, helped him match the blue shade of Robert Banks' house and sold him a gallon of paint. Blair hadn't moved, sitting like an obedient passenger when Jim climbed back behind the wheel.   
  
"You're still a manipulative shit."  
  
"Whatever, man. Now the interpretive center, right?"  
  
"Right." Jim started the truck.   
  
Signs for the Lewis and Clark Interpretive Center were the same as for the state park and the US Coast Guard Station, a training school where recruits from all over the US learned how to handle boats in extreme conditions on the bar. The powerful river's entrance was a virtual graveyard of sunken ships.  
  
Jim followed the handicap access and located a parking spot at the hilltop. Blair continued his best possible behavior, even waiting until Jim gave the nod to get out and sit in the wheelchair. They rolled up the asphalt path, passed the base for an old long range disappearing rifle cannon, living history of early coastal defense dating back to the civil war times. The view overlooked the bar, the north jetty and the shoreline to the north.  
  
Once inside the front doors, Blair fished out a crumpled five dollar bill and stuffed it into the donation box. Two volunteers sat behind the reception counter. Blair instantly charmed the couple, a retired man and his wife, with his usual manner. Jim was introduced, included in the pleasant sundry of chatter until Blair twisted around and pulled out a leather bound notebook from his backpack hanging on a wheelchair handle.   
  
It was time for the researcher to research. Blair told the couple his needs and they graciously allowed him access to records.  
  
An enjoyable two hours later, Jim browsed the small gift shop. He selected a paperback account of the expedition, boasting much of the transcribed journal entries and set it on the counter to buy.  
  
"What did you think, Jim?" the elder lady asked.   
  
Jim nodded. "Impressive displays, lots of good work."  
  
She nodded in firm agreement, her wrinkled skin gathered under her chin and gently swayed. "You just wait and see our plans for the bicentennial. We'll have the addition completed by then, should be a nice kick off."  
  
"That's right." Jim looked at the framed poster above her head. "The two hundred year mark is coming, isn't it?"  
  
"That's right. Everyone's planning a celebration, all along the entire four thousand miles of the original route." She picked up his selection and read the price tag. "You staying at the state park?"  
  
"Close to, but not inside." Jim smiled. "We're staying in a friend's house the next hollow over."  
  
"Oh, sure. Robert's place. You a friend of his?"  
  
"I work for his cousin," Jim said, amazed that folks seemed to know everyone around here. "We're hoping for a week of relaxation. The job's been a little intense lately."  
  
She nodded wisely. "Now, you take it from me. My first husband worked himself to death. Never saw retirement. Lenny and I know better. You got to take the time to smell the flowers, Jim. You understand me?"  
  
"Yes, ma'am." Jim held up his hand as if to pledge. "We're smelling."  
  
She chuckled. "This'll do ya?"  
  
"No, better hold off. Blair's still below, looking around."  
  
"I took a peek in on him a while back." She leaned forward. "He's up to his elbows in research. Even had Lenny get out some of our stored information. What's he working on?"  
  
"He found some photocopies of one of the journals. He's trying to figure out which one."  
  
"That's nice."  
  
Jim poked around a bit more, then wandered down the ramp to the sub floor and sought out Blair. "You ready?"  
  
"Oh." Blair looked up guiltily, poking his glasses back up his nose. He'd made himself at home, set up in an office off the beaten path of the exhibits. Inside was a computer on a desk, a couple filing cabinets and a small copy machine. "Sorry, Jim. Meant to wrap this up about ten ago."  
  
Jim waved a hand at the room. "They let you get access to all this?"  
  
"Card carrying Rainier University Teaching Assistants have some advantages, man." Blair started closing textbooks and tidying up.  
  
He'd been good about staying in the chair and Jim felt a pull of empathy. "We can come back, Chief."  
  
Blair's grin was brilliant. "Cool! Thanks, Jim. Really. This is so great. Wait till I tell you what I found."  
  
"So, they're not part of the documented journals." Jim unloaded the groceries.  
  
Blair had his laptop running. He didn't look up from his typing. "Nope."  
  
"Then the pages are a hoax?"  
  
"That's the exciting part, man." Blair hit the save key and started the power down process on his computer. Hand notes were okay, but years of study taught him to transcribe notes to some form of back up as soon as possible, while the details were fresh in his mind. "History tells us that two other men also kept journals, but were never found. What if these photocopies are from one of the missing journals."  
  
"And someone leaves it in a recycled shopping bag? Makes no sense." Jim sounded unconvinced. "What do you want for lunch?"  
  
"Whatever, don't care." Blair waved a hand in the air. "Jim, they're just copies and someone misplaced a few pages. That's how it ends up in the bag. A dozen pages wouldn't even be noticed. You move my stuff around all the time, it happens."  
  
"I'm thinking hot dogs with corn chips. And I wouldn't be moving your stuff around if you kept it where it belongs, which is not all over our living room."  
  
Blair snickered. He'd been expecting that. He looked over his newly prized copies, still struggling with the possibility of discovery. God, who would knowingly keep something like this a secret?   
  
"Besides, how can you be sure the journal entries are different? Not even you had time to reread everything on file." Jim had a pot of water boiling on the stove. He opened a large bag of chips and took a handful before setting it down on the table within Blair's reach.  
  
"The interpretive center has a very thorough search program. Every known journal entry was in their computer database. I typed in lines from my pages and couldn't find them. But the real reason I know these are different was the account in here of Floyd."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Sergeant Charles Floyd. He died early on in the trip. The journals all said he was a healthy twenty-two year old. God, Jim, can you imagine? Younger than me and getting to be on an expedition of that importance? Anyway, it sounded like the guy had a ruptured appendix. That was fatal in those days." Blair reached into the bag and popped a few curled squares into his mouth and crunched. It dawned on him he'd better take a more active role in the menus this week or he'd be gaining twenty pounds.  
  
"Okay, I sort of remember that. Your pages document his death?" Jim used a small knife to slit open the hot dog wrapping.  
  
"Oh, yeah, and how, man." Blair tapped the papers. "Says here Floyd was murdered."  
  
"What?" Jim set the knife and package down, crossing the floor in two long strides. "Let me see."  
  
"Easy, Jules Verne. It's not like we've got a time machine to go back and make an arrest." He watched Jim read, his blue eyes flicking back and forth, then grunting as he reached the end.  
  
"Yeah, I see what you mean. Wish it was easier to know for real, but the writer was definitely suspicious, sounds like he even had a few motives in mind. But that's not how to spell poison." Jim returned to the stove, leaving the papers on the table.  
  
"Well, back in those days, folks were lucky if they even knew how to read and write. They just did their best with spelling," Blair said. "The first dictionary wasn't even published until the 1820's."  
  
Jim dumped six dogs into the boiling water. "Does it say anything more about Floyd's death?"  
  
"Yeah, the next page goes on about how he thinks Captain Lewis might have slipped him the poison when he first started getting sick, but on the last page here, it says he thinks maybe Gass did it to get the field promotion to sergeant."  
  
Jim frowned, leaning a hip against the kitchen counter. "What are you going to do with this, Chief?"  
  
A very good question, Blair wasn't sure yet. "I know what I'm not going to do. And that's let anyone see these pages until I've done some more research. Without the originals, it's nothing more than an interesting read. But I'm going to talk to a few professors I know, get them to poke around. Someone might be holding on to the original journal and I want to know why it hasn't been shared with the world."  
  
"If any ancestors of Lewis or Gass are still around, they're not going to be too happy if that journal surfaces."  
  
"Yeah, I know."  
  
Jim started painting the stairs after lunch. The day was warming up. After firmly turning down Blair's offer to help, he let himself get talked into dragging the 'Morris' chair out onto the deck. Blair set himself up with some bottled water and a few of those flea market books he'd scored.  
  
Jim painted while Blair read. It was a nice way to spend the afternoon. The fog was gone and more than once he looked up to catch Blair staring peacefully out at the ocean. Around two-fifteen Jim looked up and Blair was asleep.   
  
Jim continued painting, to wait and see if Blair's condition was temporary. He was still snoozing when the final stroke of paint went down and step was done. Wiping his hands needlessly – Jim never could understand how folks managed to get paint all over themselves – he quietly circled around the house, entering from the kitchen and snagged the cotton throw from the sofa. Standing next to the chair, he looked down at his sleeping friend.  
  
A nice feature of a 'Morris' chair was the way the back could be lowered until it was nearly level with the seat. Blair already had his injured leg supported on a padded foot rest. Jim lifted his other leg to rest alongside. Blair never woke. Next, Jim tilted the back forward on the hinge, enough to release the cross bar and return it to the lowest setting. Then, he carefully, slowly, dropped the chair back, Blair and all.  
  
Unfocused, blue eyes blinked blearily up. "Whaa?"  
  
"It's okay, I'm just making you more comfortable," Jim said in a whisper.  
  
Blair's eyes closed again, lids flittering restlessly for a few seconds, then he settled into his new position with a contented sigh. Jim took the book from his lap and covered him with the throw. Retracing his steps through the house, he took a second to unplug the phone in the living room before walking out the back door, around the small house and sat down to finish his painting.  
  
It was one of the nicest, peaceful afternoons he'd had in a long time.  
  
The next morning Jim already had a routine he liked. He put on the shorts and t-shirt, added the light jacket and checked on Blair before starting his run. The beach was fogged in. Knowing what the afternoon was planning, it made the fog all that more special. He stretched and started his run, enjoying the new day, his health, a healing partner and his boss's generosity.   
  
He'd planned on using this week to mull over the events at the well with Quinn. Simon seemed so sure nothing would have happened. Jim wished he'd shared his boss's certainty. Yeah, Quinn was lower than the scum that formed on the surface of a cesspool, and yeah, he murdered Brody, kidnapped his boss and because of him, Blair got shot.   
  
Jim had no qualms with killing him if he had needed to. So why had he flirted those long moments with killing him when he hadn't needed to? When the situation had basically been handled?  
  
Jim knew. He'd seen it when he'd looked into those cold eyes of a killer. Quinn didn't give a shit. Even after all he'd done, all he had almost done, he would just as calmly go out tomorrow and do that and more if given the chance.  
  
How could the legal system continue to deal with people like Quinn?  
  
Jim concentrated on the sand under his feet. He let each pounding step drive the truth into his brain.  
  
Not.  
  
His.  
  
Call.  
  
To.  
  
Make.  
  
Jim was a police officer, a protector. He'd continue to do that job and let the system deal with the punishment of people like Quinn.  
  
That's the lesson Simon knew so well, hell, they all knew. It was just part of being on the team to have to occasionally remind each other. Jim hadn't been the only one to ever need reminding, either. Simon had that same look once or twice in their time together, most recently when Daryl had been hanging upside down from the upper floor window at the police station.   
  
Jim took a cleansing breath and let it go. He brought his attention to the here and now and commanded his body to go faster. He exalted in feeling a burst of speed and grinned. The fog cooled his heated face and legs.   
  
Yeah.  
  
Blair's dream had been so sweet. He blinked at Jim, wondering why his friend was in his room. Blair hadn't called him, he wasn't moaning in pain or anything.  
  
Before he could ask, a hand clamped over his mouth.  
  
Blair managed to grab the wrist, but couldn't get the hand off his face. Shit! There was a second guy in his room!   
  
Jim touched the stone face and turned to head north again. One more lap and he'd head in. A faint heart beat froze him in his tracks.  
  
"Hello?" Jim looked up. The sounds came from over his head. That made no sense at all. The fog and the topography must be playing tricks on him.  
  
He listened. No, Jim was right the first time, someone was up there. The beat was too slow for an animal. Besides, he'd smell the animal. He searched the cliff face carefully, then jogged inland a bit. He found a vertical crevasse in the rock, nothing more than a couple of finger holds, but it led up to a shelf about twelve feet from the sand.   
  
"Hey? Someone up there? You okay?"   
  
Friend or foe? Or injured?  
  
"I'm climbing up."  
  
The ledge was actually a shelf of sorts to a hollowed out shallow cave that dipped down and to the left, hidden from the beach by a stone lip. The curled form of a person was crammed into the back.  
  
"You okay?" Jim looked closely, seeing dark, straight hair that was cut in a manner to suggest male, not female. The head lifted and he looked into the face of an unhappy boy, no more than ten years old, tops. "What's wrong, kid? You hurt or something?"  
  
"Leave me alone," the kid said. His skin was dark to suggest Mexican or even American Indian. The kid looked tired.  
  
"I'm a police officer. You don't need to be afraid." Jim finished climbing up, swinging to sit on the stone's edge. He extended a hand into the cave. "Can you move? Are you hurt?"  
  
"Shit, man," the kid muttered. "You're ruining everyth – Whoa!" His eyes widened in wonder, not fear, somewhere to Jim's right.  
  
Jim looked down. Nothing was there. This kid must be hurt. "Okay, just stay calm. I'll help you down and we'll call your parents."  
  
Now the boy was chanting. The words caused Jim to mentally cross off the Hispanic guess and circle the American Indian, although he didn't have a clue which tribe. Before he could say another word the chanting stopped and the boy switched back to English.   
  
"You came, I don't believe it. Ah... what is my place?" The boy reached for a stick at his side.   
  
"What?" Jim half expected the youth to swing at him.   
  
Instead he held the stick with a trembling hand. His eyes flicked from Jim's face to the empty spot next to him and back. "M-my vision, right? Aren't you going to tell me?"  
  
"Listen, kid. I'm a police officer, okay? I'm here to help you. Can you climb down by yourself or do you need help?"  
  
"I can climb down."  
  
Jim backed down, jumping the last five feet to the soft sand. He landed lightly and looked up. The kid's face peered over the side, his mouth round, eyes wide with wonder. He looked awestricken.   
  
Jim held up a hand. "Okay, come on, partner."   
  
He had a shaky start, but climbed down without incident. He was bigger than Jim first guessed. Dressed in jeans and a black sweater with a zip up hooded jacket, he looked up at Jim, tentatively reaching out to touch an arm.   
  
"You're real."  
  
"Yeah," Jim said. "That's what they tell me."  
  
The kid looked around. "Where'd the cat go?"  
  
"What cat?"  
  
"The one with you before, oh, wait." He looked back at Jim. "Sorry, I forgot."  
  
Okay, this kid didn't look hurt, but he acted like he'd taken one too many blows to the head. "What are you doing out here?"  
  
The younger face looked pensive. "Is this, like, a trick question?"  
  
"I don't think so." Jim scrubbed his face. "Although I'm starting to wonder. I guess if you're telling me you're okay and nothing's wrong..."  
  
"So, we're done?" The kid sounded disappointed. "That was it?"  
  
This kid was like Blair, all the questions answered with questions. "Do you need to call your parents? Do you live close by?"  
  
"I've got a bike." He jerked a thumb into the trees. "I'll ride home. Do you keep this? Or what?"  
  
'This' was the stick. Someone had taken the time to remove the bark and smooth down the ends. Jim knew he didn't need it, and the kid seemed reluctant to part with it. "You keep it. So, you're not too far from your home? You can ride back okay?"  
  
"Sure." He shrugged the jacket up on his shoulders in a mature manner. "I guess I'll take off. Will I see you again?"  
  
Jim smiled. "Could be, I'm here for the rest of the week. We might bump into each other again."  
  
"Cool." Looking around one last time as if to catch sight of something in the surrounding fog, he raised a hand and turned away to jog into the dunes.   
  
Jim waited until he safely made it over the piles of accumulated drift wood and into the tree line before turning away, still clueless as to what that entire conversation had been about. More than likely, the kid had been hiding from his family, maybe upset after fighting with his old man. Yeah, that was probably it. He was just embarrassed at having been found like that.  
  
Beginning to feel stiff and not feeling like warming up all over again to finish the run, Jim jogged slowly back to the beach house. The newly painted stairs rose out of the fog. Jim admired his job as he climbed. Looking up, he realized he hadn't latched the door.   
  
He was getting lazy.   
  
Blair's snores settled his irritation. No harm, no foul. He'd shower then start breakfast. Inside the living room, he reached down to retrieve his suitcase and pick out his clothes for the day. He froze. His clothes were scattered about. His sweater spilled out from the opened case, socks, sweats, jeans, all of it had been tossed around and left where they'd fallen on the floor next to the sofa.  
  
What the hell? What was Blair up to?  
  
It wasn't the only mess in the room. The bag of flea market books had been dumped out, too.   
  
Blair's computer was on the floor! The lid opened and face down!  
  
Shit! He hadn't left the door open! They'd been broken into!  
  
"Blair!"  
  
Jim ran for the back bedroom. Casting out his hearing as he went, he quickly realized they were the only two in the house. He found Blair on the floor, tossed down like a broken toy by a petulant child giant. Face smashed into the carpet, his bad leg was bent at an awkward angle. Even if he hadn't been shot, it was going to be painful.  
  
"Son of a ..." Jim dropped down on one knee, fingers homing in on Blair's strong carotid pulse. He ran quick hands down the injured leg first, no new damage. He straightened it. Listening to the muscles move, the ligaments and tendons performed their job as best as Jim could feel. The other leg and arms checked out okay. He ran fingers down Blair's neck and spine.  
  
Good, everything seemed good.   
  
Rolling the unconscious man over, he got a good look at Blair's bruised face.   
  
"Sandburg, wake up, damn it!"   
  
Blair groaned, his breath hitching as he grimaced.   
  
Damn, Jim lifted the T-shirt. Yep, stomach took some hits, too. Jim rolled Blair onto his side, not surprised when the beaten man drew both knees up.  
  
"Blair? You with me?" Jim thumbed up one eyelid then the other. "Come on. Don't keep me in suspense."  
  
"G-gaawwdd-d."   
  
"Easy."   
  
"J-jim, they... ow... t-two... d-dem."  
  
"Lay still," Jim said. "I'm calling the cops. Be right back."  
  
The phone didn't work. Jim traced the line to a freshly cut end. He cursed and went instead to make ice packs out of quart sized zip-lock baggies and ice from the freezer. It only took a minute, but he kept in voice contact, more to let his friend know he wasn't alone than anything else. "Okay, plan 'B' time. We're going to drive to that clinic in Ilwaco and make sure you're okay. Be right there, fixing you something for that eye and swollen lip."  
  
Blair had managed to sit up by the time Jim was back. His injured leg straight, other leg bent up, his forehead resting in his arms that he'd crossed over his knee.   
  
"How's the head?" Jim knelt down. "Here, one for the back and one for your face." He helped get the towel wrapped icepacks in place. "What happened?  
  
"Two guys." Blair peered up, his single visible eye woeful. "Wearing ski masks. Gloves, too. They were in my room."  
  
"What'd they want?"  
  
"Don'no, man." Blair groaned. "Where were you?"  
  
A simple question. Jim knew that. Blair wasn't blaming, he was asking. Still, it cut to the bone. "On the beach, jogging. I found a kid –"  
  
"God, man." Blair shuttered. "I was so freaked! T-thought they'd hurt you or something."  
  
"No, I'm fine." Jim sniffed. "I'm smelling blood, Chief." He traced to the gunshot wound. "Shit. Come on, you probably tore a stitch. Let's get you checked out." He had to stand over Blair and lift, bringing a painful groan. "Sorry."  
  
One icepack had fallen to the carpet; Jim waited until Blair had balance and scooped it up, along with one crutch. The other lay nearby, one wooden support broken. Jim noticed the rest of the room. Lamp on the floor, its shade smashed, bedding pulled off, pictures of seascapes tilted in crazy angles on the wall.  
  
Blair snickered, seeing Jim's attention. "I got kinda pissed."  
  
"You?"  
  
"Well, they wouldn't tell me where you were." Blair tucked the surviving crutch under his arm and held the ice pack against the back of his head. "We can suspect anyone with a broken nose. It'll match the damage to my crutch."  
  
Jim shook his head. "Okay, Rambo. Let's get you patched up."  
  
The small clinic was just opening for the day. The nurse hadn't even set her purse down or removed her coat when Jim and Blair entered.   
  
"Oh, my." She was a slender woman with long black hair. The name tag on her shirt said 'Jolene'. She reached for a phone on her counter. "The doctor doesn't come in for another half hour, should I call him?"  
  
"Please," Jim said. He lowered Blair into a chair.  
  
"I can wait thirty minutes, Jim."   
  
They should have gone straight to the police and skipped this visit. Blair's gut had dropped from 'hurts to breathe' to 'just sore' on the pain-o-meter. Sure, his head still pounded, but that was normal after having it bounced off the headboard. He felt the start of a black eye and knew his lip was swollen out to tomorrow. But Jim ignored him, busy instead with the task of reporting Blair's injuries in a clipped, military style. Blair peered at the woman with his one good eye, the one not being covered with an ice pack.  
  
Nice. Very pretty. And nurses love a man who's hurt, right? Blair's day might not be a total bummer.  
  
The door swung open and a half-sized whirlwind swept through in jeans and hooded sweat jacket.  
  
"Mom! It happened!"  
  
"Clifford!"  
  
"Kid?"   
  
"You!"  
  
Blair covered his ears. The head sent signals to his sore stomach, which answered with waves of nausea. God, maybe he did have a head injury. Jim's going to freak. Another stupid heli-vac to the hospital.  
  
No way! Not going to go through two 'spinning basket' rides in one week. Blair's world grayed and he bent forward with a groan.  
  
Hands urged him to sit up straight. A pleasant, soft voice spoke, barely audible over his pounding head. He recognized Jim's grip on his arm and his light massage on the back of his neck.   
  
Yeah, better. Not going to have brains shooting out both ears. Not going to hurl chunks. Someone – the nurse? - warned of a light and he felt a butterfly soft touch on his face. His eyelid was lifted and held. The light hit and he reared back.  
  
"Easy." Jim sounded scared.  
  
Blair wanted to tell him everything was okay. People just needed not to shout for a couple of hours; that was all. He knew the light was going to hit his other eye, the one that got clobbered. Blair was proud when he didn't flinch.   
  
'See?' he wanted to brag. He wasn't hurt, much.   
  
Jim pulled him upward, hands on his bent elbows. More walking? Now? He didn't want to, his head was still hurting, getting better, but still – ah... Okay, softness. Yeah, he could lie down, thank you very much. Real narrow for a bed, though. Must be a gurney.  
  
"Jim... no baskets, okay?"  
  
"Okay, Chief."  
  
"Mean it, man." His legs were lifted onto the bed, shoes and all. "Serious here."  
  
"Sandburg, relax."  
  
'Yeah, yeah, sure. Get me all relaxed so you can strap me down and hook me up to that cable hanging underneath a monster-sized whirly bird.' Real fear gripped his chest, squeezing his lungs. Blair struggled to sit up, squinting painfully at the lights passing overhead. When did he start moving?  
  
"Jim! Stop ignoring –"   
  
"Hey, hey, now." Jim was right next to him, close enough that Blair could see the sweat staining his T-shirt. "You've got to stay calm."  
  
Blair had to make sure he was clear. "No helicopter, Jim. Okay? No."  
  
Blue eyes softened with understanding. "Okay. I'm on board now. I get you. Land and sea, good. Air, bad. Now, will you lie back down and let the nurse take your vitals?"  
  
"S-sure," Blair said, feeling a little stupid. They were in a small exam room now. He saw the nurse standing expectantly with a blood pressure cuff. "Yeah, okay."  
  
"So, he's okay?" Jim needed to hear the old man say it one more time.  
  
"I think so. Watch for the return of nausea, severe headaches, dizziness, yada, yada," the doctor said, scribbling on a chart. He was ancient in doctor-years, long past the time for leisurely weeks of golfing tournaments and trips to Palm Springs.   
  
Jim liked him. Right away he had cut through Blair's bullshit factor and went right to the issues, getting Blair to respond with honest answers.   
  
"You're going to talk to the police, right?"  
  
Jim nodded. "That's our next stop."  
  
"Want some?" He held up the fresh carafe of coffee. Seeing Jim's hungry look for caffeine, he poured a second cup and handed it over. "Good, you tell them about this assault. We don't need to let a group of thugs start terrorizing folks around here."  
  
The coffee was strong, the beans smelled freshly roasted. Jim held his mug with both hands, covering the words 'Born to Fish, Forced to Work'. "What about his leg?"  
  
"You're right, did some damage there. I'd watch it, keep it clean. Know more when the swelling goes down. May not need surgery again." He gave Jim an assessing look. "Got shot working with you, huh? Any chance this assault was part of that?"  
  
"No," Jim said. "That case is completely wrapped up."  
  
"Okay," the doctor started walking back toward the exam room Blair was resting in with Jim following. "You're the police officer. I'm just the doctor. Hey, Clifford. How'd the camping trip go?"  
  
Jim didn't expect to see the kid from the beach. He certainly didn't expect to see him in Blair's room. Blair looked much better. No evidence of the earlier panic about being airlifted. He'd been chatting with Clifford as they walked in, but broke it off with the doctor's question.  
  
Clifford eyed Jim cautiously; it was disconcerting. "It was great, Doctor Charlie."  
  
"You were camping?" Jim couldn't help but ask. "Where was your tent? Your equipment?"  
  
Clifford shrugged. He slipped off the metal stool, edging for the door. "Catch ya later, Blair. Bye, Doc." The kid caught Jim's eye and nodded. "Sir."  
  
Jim watched him go. That was one strange kid. He turned back to his partner. "How's the head?"  
  
"Great," Blair answered. He sat on the gurney, the back raised comfortably. He eyed Jim's cup. "Be greater with some of that. Can I?"  
  
Doctor Charlie nodded. "You're released, young man. If it doesn't hurt ya, you can do it." His face broke into a grin. "Within reason, of course." He left them with a wave.  
  
Jim wanted to go. He handed his half empty coffee cup over willingly. "Here, just finish this and I'll get you more later."  
  
"Thanks."   
  
Jolene walked in, carrying crutches. "You certainly look better. Doctor said you'd need these. You can drop them off when you're done with them." She smiled at Jim. "Clifford's very taken with you, officer. Seems he and you have some history."  
  
"I found him on the beach. I hope I didn't scare him."   
  
"No, he likes to explore. My husband's a commercial fisherman. Clifford sometimes goes down to watch for the boats to return." She handed Blair pink copies of his insurance forms.   
  
"You're Chinook, right?" Blair asked.  
  
"That's right." She smiled. "I'm Coastal, my husband is Shoalwater."  
  
All the paperwork was finished. Jim gathered up their coats. Blair looked strong enough to hobble out to the truck, so he didn't hover. Clifford was nowhere to be seen as they left. The drive to the sheriff's office was only three blocks. A heavyset man in his thirties was visible through a small window separating the waiting room from the dispatch area. The deputy had to be notified by radio. Blair was on his second cup of coffee and Jim his first by the time she arrived. The sheriff's coffee was swill compared to Doctor Charlie's brew.   
  
"I'm Deputy Nettle. Sorry you men had to wait." She assessed Blair with a thorough look. "Let's go in the back. You'll be more comfortable." They were buzzed through a security door into the back of the building.  
  
Nettle was about Jim's age with a sturdy build. She'd never get a job as a lingerie model, but Jim had a feeling she'd be a valuable person to watch your back. She led them to a break room of sorts, with a round table, a long counter that held a microwave, a coffee maker and a box of snacks with a sign to remind people they were on an honor system for payment. Jim noticed the box was nearly empty, and the IOU sheet was full. Illustrated framed posters of game fish classifications hung on the light gray walls.  
  
"Take this seat," she said to Blair, pointing to a padded desk chair.  
  
"Thanks." Blair let Jim take the crutches and settled in with a sigh.  
  
"We had a thirty-eight foot Bayliner hit a sandbar this morning. Idiot managed to block the channel all morning. I was helping the coasties get it all sorted out." She poured her own coffee, took a sip and made a face. "Blah, time to start a new pot."  
  
She sat down to take the report after dumping the coffee and fixing a new batch. "Okay, you've obviously had a full morning. The dispatcher said you've been to Charlie and he looked you over. Want to tell me what happened? Can we start with some ID?"  
  
Jim pulled out his ID. "I'm a detective with Major Crimes, city of Cascade. Blair rides with me, sort of a consultant with the department." He was also carrying Blair's police ID and laid it next to his own.  
  
"I'm writing a paper on police societies," Blair said. "I'm an anthropologist."  
  
Nettle sat up straight. "That prisoner escape last week. Up north! A police officer was kidnapped. Your names were mentioned."  
  
"Right. Sandburg got shot. We're down here for a little R and R."  
  
She looked suddenly sympathetic. "And this happens. Shit, I'm so sorry. We're normally a quiet county. Okay, let's start from the beginning."  
  
Jim turned to Blair. It was his story. "Go ahead, Chief."  
  
Nettle listened to his story with a sympathetic look. Jim picked up the story when Blair finished. Nettle, who told them her name was Alice – feel free to use it - was a quick scribe. In no time she was ready to follow them back to the beach house.   
  
Jim only had one stop to make, something about needing a new phone cord.  
  
Back at the house, Blair saw the backdoor had been pried open, probably with a screwdriver. Once inside, he found the damage in the living room.   
  
"My laptop!"   
  
Jim stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Don't touch anything."  
  
"They had gloves on, Jim."  
  
"You can't be sure they kept them on the entire time."  
  
Blair rolled his eyes irritably. "Right! Like they're going to wear them to beat the snot out of me, then take them off to touch our stuff."  
  
Jim looked at Nettle. "He's not himself."  
  
She shook her head, a faint smile playing on her face. "Jim's right. Let me see if I can lift some prints."  
  
"Oh, man! That powder will get into my electronics and ruin everything." Blair suddenly felt whipped. What was the point? His computer looked destroyed anyway. He was tired and he hurt all over. "Ahhh, hell with it."  
  
"Come on," Jim said. He nodded towards the kitchen. "Let's go sit down. I'll find something for us to eat while Alice works."  
  
In the kitchen, Blair stared glumly at the gray speckled enamel table top. Just the mention of food caused him to realize how hollow he felt. The coffee he'd downed had morphed into acid.  
  
"Oh, damn it," Jim said.  
  
"What?" Blair looked up. Jim stared at the countertop. Blair realized what was missing. "They stole the espresso maker? What kind of robber steals a person's espresso maker?"  
  
Jim opened a drawer and held up a booklet. "They forgot the manual."  
  
His expression was so droll, so deadpan, Blair couldn't help but laugh. "Simon's going to kick our ass, man," he said when he'd caught his breath.  
  
Jim made sandwiches for all three of them. They ate and Nettle took Blair's fingerprints, then Jim's. She promised to call as soon she learning anything helpful. As the deputy left, she asked them to make a detailed list of everything missing and drop it by the station later.   
  
"Sometimes you don't notice missing items until days later," she said, then pulled a face. "Oh, you guys know. Forgive me if I state the obvious."  
  
Jim favored her with his warm smile, the one he saved for guys in the bullpen. "We appreciate this, Alice. We didn't give you much to work with. We'll get working on the list right away. Hell of a lot of trouble for a coffee maker."  
  
After she was gone, Blair leaned on his crutches and stared at the mess in the living room; Jim's clothes, his backpack, books. "Thank God they didn't trash the place. You know how some creeps get their kicks."  
  
Jim nodded. "Yeah, to include leaving behind dead bodies. I'm glad you're okay, Sandburg."  
  
"You're still guilt tripping." Blair stamped one crutch foot down impatiently. He felt like a spider with extra legs. "Stop it. You couldn't have known. Hey! Your gun! Did they get it?"  
  
"No," Jim said, patting the small of his back with one hand. "I tucked it under the mattress when I went out to jog." He squatted down and started pulling together odds and ends of their scattered belongings. "Go sit down in the kitchen. I'll bring your computer and stuff to go through. We might as well start that list."  
  
To Blair's amazement, the laptop booted up. The housing sported some new scratches, but worked okay. He went to the hard drive first. Jim came and went, quietly leaving books, papers and his pack on the table. From Jim's stance, the set of his jaw and the way his eyes darted around, Blair recognized the guilt still lingering. He sighed. Apparently, Jim's sense of duty was enhanced, too. His thoughts returned to the computer, he'd find a way to get Jim to let it go. Maybe some meditation. He checked his recycle bin file, just because.  
  
"That's odd."  
  
"What?" Jim asked, appearing at his elbow.  
  
"My trash file's empty."  
  
"That's a bad thing? I thought you only put stuff in there that you don't want."  
  
"Yeah, but I know for a fact I had some files in there yesterday. I planned on dumping them later." Blair went to his 'start' button and looked at the record of which files were recently viewed. "Let's just check something."  
  
Jim pulled out a chair and sat, quietly waiting for a word. Blair reviewed his most recent work. "Okay, my notes from the Lewis and Clark stuff." He tried to open the file and got the 'invalid path' window. "Uh oh."  
  
"What?"  
  
He clicked on the 'My Documents' folder and checked its contents. The file was gone. "Why would they..."  
  
"What?" Jim tugged Blair's shoulder. "What, Sandburg?"  
  
"It's gone." Blair reached for his papers. "Help me look."  
  
"For what?" he repeated impatiently.  
  
"The journal copies, Jim. My disks. The file's gone and ..." Blair double checked. He remembered folding the papers and putting them into an interoffice routing envelope he'd scored from Rainier's trash can. "They took it! My pack was in my room last night, I remember now. They took it from my room. That must have been when I woke up."  
  
"Those were just copies," Jim said. "Why take them?"  
  
Blair sat back, his mind racing. "Not just the copies. They took the time to delete the file with my notes about the journal and stole the backup floppy."  
  
"That's a big risk." Jim ran a hand thrrough his short hair. "Wouldn't it have been faster to just wipe everything out?"  
  
"Yeah, but then I'd know. This way, I might think I hadn't saved it or something." He turned to look at the counter. "Know what? I think the espresso machine was just a cover. They wanted those journal copies. What I don't get is how they figured I had them. That paper bag could have been handed out to anybody."  
  
Jim got a funny look on his face. "I think I know."  
  
"You do?"  
  
"Yeah." Jim looked ill. "Oh, shit, Chief. I told that woman at the interpretive center. I might have said you couldn't match journal entries with any of the existing journals on record."  
  
This was a total switch. Wow, how weird was that? Normally Blair was the one blabbing when he shouldn't. Jim looked so upset, Blair felt a stab of empathy. "Hey, it's not like this was a Major Crime case, Jim. Don't sweat it. You couldn't have known."  
  
Jim didn't look any better. "Shit." He scrubbed his face a second, then dropped his hands to the table.   
  
"Let's just move on, okay? Question remains, what makes those papers worth stealing?" Blair scratched his head, his hair felt oily. "I say we keep digging."  
  
After Jim thought about it, he had to agree with Blair's theory for break in. After all, the laptop hadn't been taken and it was more valuable then an espresso maker. Plus the microwave and TV hadn't been touched.   
  
He just couldn't figure out why those papers were worth committing felonies over. And all because he made small talk with a sweet old lady. Guilt tainted Jim's world. Sure, intellectually, Blair was right. Jim hadn't known, a person couldn't see into the future. They weren't working a case. Blair was just having some fun with an innocent looking history puzzle.  
  
"Why don't you write down everything you remember from the journal, while it's still fresh?" Jim said.   
  
Blair grinned. "Don't have to, man. At least, I don't think so."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because, I made copies yesterday. I was going to mail them to Professor Teal but I didn't have a stamp. I left it in the glove box."  
  
Jim grinned. "You made a copy? When?"  
  
"At the interpretive center. I made two sets, actually. I didn't want to write on the original pages I found, so I made a set for me and a set to mail." Blair absentmindedly probed his swollen lip. "I guess they got my extra set, along with the original copies."  
  
Jim didn't like that. "That means they know you had time to make copies."  
  
"That a problem?"  
  
"Not sure, might be." Jim stood up. "I'll be right back."  
  
The envelope was where Blair said it would be, addressed and sealed. So they were back in business.   
  
Blair was on his crutches when Jim came back inside. "Cool. I have a plan, Jim. But first, I gotta hit the shower. I can get my leg wet, right?"  
  
Jim nodded. "I'll change your bandages again. Let me get the seat in and you'll be set."  
  
Jim cleaned up while the shower water ran. He vacuumed Blair's room carefully, zooming in on the carpet as he went along, looking for but not finding possible evidence of who might have attacked his roommate.  
  
He fixed the phone, replacing the cut line and checked. They had a dial tone. He was just finishing wiping the last of the gray fingerprint powder up when Blair joined him, dressed in clean sweats and his hair blow dried. He even had his tennis shoes on, not the slippers he favored for bumming around inside. This did not bode well for a leisurely afternoon inside.  
  
"Okay, here's my plan," Blair said.  
  
Jim parked in exactly the same spot as yesterday. The interpretive center was busier than their first trip. The main parking lot below them was half full. The public had a short, but steep trek up a paved path that connected to the handicap parking area. A group of young teenagers were charging down the path as Jim got out. Through the trees sat a yellow school bus with its doors open and ready for boarding.  
  
"Field trips," Blair said with fondness as he waited for Jim to get set up. "God, I loved them."  
  
"We had a few," Jim told him as he locked the truck. He had Blair's wheelchair out and ready. Blair obediently got in. "My favorite trip was to Tillamook, Oregon in the ninth grade."  
  
"The flight museum?"  
  
"Cheese factory."  
  
"Glutton." Blair laughed.  
  
The same couple greeted them. Jim eyed the woman doubtfully. Yeah, he knew criminals came in all shapes and sizes, but this senior citizen did not look the master criminal-type. Blair greeted them warmly and responded to their concerns. He shared a sugared down version of the break in.  
  
"Goodness!" Lenny's wife, Paula, was shocked. "You poor man!"  
  
"I'm just glad they didn't steal my computer." Blair had his hair tied back and his glasses on. With his black eye and puffy lip, he looked like a bedraggled, starving college student. "I was wondering… Could I use your internet connection again? They messed with some of my papers, I'm doing a research project."  
  
"Sure," Lenny lifted a hinged countertop section, "I'll unlock for you. Can't stay, though. We're short handed today."  
  
In deference to Blair's sore stomach muscles, Jim took the wheelchair's handles. They passed the displays detailing the Corps of Discovery facts lining the long ramp that took visitors to the lower floor. At the bottom they headed toward the office. It was just as they had left it. Lenny flicked on the lights and left them to work.   
  
Blair's attention focused on the desk computer. He switched it on and ran through screens faster than Jim could keep up.   
  
"Don't watch, Jim. I'm pushing protocol here." Blair toggled a few keys in a manner that smacked 'hacker' to Jim.   
  
"Maybe I should guard the door?"  
  
"Good call."  
  
A short time later, Blair was signing off. Jim hadn't actually stood at the door, but he did keep one ear tuned toward it. His job had been to make two more copies of the journal, then he poked around the office and found a schedule that looked interesting.   
  
"Okay, someone definitely checked on my computer activities yesterday," Blair said as he closed down all the programs and started the shut down procedure. "All the files and search jobs I did were mirrored."  
  
"Can you tell what time that happened?" Jim asked, holding the schedule in his hand.  
  
"Around four-thirty."  
  
"According to this, two volunteers were scheduled to work with Lenny and Paula. A McKnight and a Moore."  
  
Blair removed and folded his glasses. "I wish they had a password system. Then I could tell which password was used to check on me." He grinned up at Jim. "Not that I'm admitting to knowing how to do that sort of thing."  
  
Jim took the chair's handles and pulled him back from the desk. "I'm glad you put your talents toward good and not evil, Chief."  
  
"Good, Jim. I'm definitely on the good side. Do you think we should talk to Nettle yet?"  
  
Jim gave that some thought as he pushed Blair back up the ramp towards the main door. "Let's hold off. We don't have anything concrete yet. But we need to keep alert. I'm not letting them get the drop on us again."  
  
They paused to chat, learning the senior couple volunteered four days on and four days off. They were just finishing their last day working. The talk involved volunteering in general and why some people give up their time to do so.  
  
"Oh, some of the younger folks still give their time. We have a young man that works here when he can." Paula crossed her arms and leaned her elbows on the counter top. "Nice man, works down at the docks in Ilwaco. Brings Lenny and me fresh crab sometimes. He was supposed to be in today, but didn't show." She looked at her husband, a frown making her wrinkles deepen. "Did Steve ever call, honey?"  
  
"Steve Anderson?" Blair said with a hopeful tone. "I used to know a Steve Anderson that works in Ilwaco."  
  
"No," Lenny said to both Blair and he wife. "Our Steve is Steve McKnight. And he never did call."  
  
They spent a few more minutes chatting, then said their goodbyes.   
  
Jim shared a wink with his friend as they rolled down the pathway toward the parked truck. "Feel like some crab for dinner, Chief?"  
  
"You betcha."  
  
The port of Ilwaco was still busy, even though it was nearing the end of the working day. Flat roofed buildings edged the water, an impressive sized marina filled the bay. Pleasure boats shared slips alongside scraggly looking fishing boats. Fish markets, a hotel, and a few closed diners were sprinkled between fish charter services.   
  
Jim parked near the entrance to the first fish market and turned to Blair. "I'll be right back. Keep the doors locked."  
  
Any other time Blair might have protested. If ever this was a 'stay in the truck, Sandburg' order when he shouldn't have to, this was it. But Blair was feeling his bruises. ''Kay."  
  
Jim looked startled. His eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Really?"  
  
"Really."   
  
"I'm just going to buy some dinner and look around. No reason to tip our hand yet."  
  
Blair made shooing motions. "Go, then. I'll keep the doors locked."  
  
He watched Jim walk into the market. The next lot over was filled with towers of stacked round cages and colorful floats. Blair fingered the fourth generation journal copy as he waited. They'd swung by a mail box and dropped off one set, along with a quick note. Blair had changed the address to read Simon Banks, care of Cascade Police. They both wanted a back up they could trust.   
  
True to his word, Jim came back carrying a sack in one arm. He climbed in and set the sack down between them. "All the boats have been unloaded for the day. Only the girl behind the counter was working."  
  
"So, no McKnight."  
  
"Nope, we'll try tomorrow."  
  
Blair had his nose in the sack, eyeing the packages wrapped in butcher paper. A delicate fishy smell made his mouth water. "Wow, Jim. This is a lot of crab."  
  
"It was a good price. And it's already cooked."  
  
When they arrived at the house, Blair couldn't keep from groaning while getting out. Jim held the crutches ready. Blair's movements were slow as he followed his roommate into the house, pausing upon reaching the kitchen.  
  
His room or the living room?   
  
The sofa in the living room won.  
  
"I'll get dinner ready."  
  
"I'll let you, man." Blair dropped wearily, toed off his sneaker and stretched out with a sigh. As much as he liked to avoid drugs, his body was not playing nicely. The little white pill might be the only way to get any sleep tonight. He dropped his head back to rest on the sofa's back and gazed out the window at the waves lapping the sand. He told his muscles to take five and let his mind drift. The gentle surf's rhythm was therapeutic to watch, he could even meditate on –   
  
Jim?   
  
The tall man appeared suddenly to stand directly between Blair and the windows, blocking the view. Blair almost said something sarcastic about it, but he looked, really looked at the cop – no, not a cop – sentinel.  
  
Jim was still. Standing tall and alert, his body almost vibrated with unleashed tension. He held a hand up, his head tilted, his face hard.  
  
Jim held up two fingers. "South side," he whispered. "Surveillance." He pointed commandingly to the floor.  
  
Oh, mmaaannnnn.   
  
Blair rolled off the sofa to the carpet with a groan. That hurt!  
  
"Stay down." Jim had his gun drawn as he slipped out the door.  
  
Five minutes?  
  
Blair was guessing, since he didn't wear a watch. He'd even started doing the one-Mississippi thing. He knew why he had to suck carpet. The windows may be perfect for viewing the ocean, but they served just as well for a sniper.  
  
Was it closer to ten minutes? He'd dropped the count when his thigh began to throb, so much so, he could use the pain to start ticking off the wait. He started to creep forward, toward the phone. It was time to call in reinforcements. Jim had been gone too long.  
  
"It's okay, Chief. We're coming in."  
  
What? Blair rose up. Jim was bringing the sniper into the house? Only it wasn't his friend who walked into the living room first.  
  
"Hello," the theoretical sniper said pleasantly, taking time to carefully use a 'U' shaped brush nailed down on the deck for removing sand from shoes.  
  
"Hi." Blair rose stiffly to his hands and knees, looking over their guests.   
  
The kid he recognized from the clinic, Clifford. But the elderly woman next to him was a stranger. She was small, shoulders slightly stooped. Her silver hair had been pulled back into a utilitarian bun with elegant ease. Her face was dark like Clifford's, crisscrossed with wrinkles. She was dressed in sturdy canvas pants and a quilted green coat. Clifford wore a battered pair of hiking boots.  
  
"Blair, this is Clifford's grandmother, Annabel Ramsey," Jim said, helping Blair to his feet. "Annabel, this is my roommate."  
  
"Hello," the old woman said. "I asked Clifford to bring me to meet you both." With Jim's urging, she sat down in the chair, Clifford standing attentively at her side.   
  
"Would you like something to drink? We have juices and soda," Jim said.  
  
Blair watched his friend play the host, his brain busy connecting the dots. Jim must have found them watching, but instead of chasing them off, he'd invited them in. That's not so unusual; Jim's a nice guy. Plus, he's going to want to know why they were out there. It only made sense to bring them into the house  
  
After everyone held a soda, Annabel spoke again. "We would have called, but did not know your number."  
  
"That's okay," Jim told her.  
  
"Grandmother said," Clifford spoke proudly, "you would come out to speak with us."  
  
She nodded. "Only if you wanted to. We would have left if you had not come to us."  
  
Ahhh. Blair was starting to get an inkling of what was happening here. "Jim? Could I talk to you in the kitchen?"  
  
Jim's face had that 'What? Right now?' look.   
  
"Please?" Blair rose, scooping up his crutches, feeling like he could be Annabel's grandfather. He shuffled for the back room, knowing Jim would follow.  
  
"What's up? You okay?" Jim asked when they were out of ear shot.   
  
"I'm okay, just sore," Blair said. "Remember back at the clinic yesterday? I was talking with Clifford?" Blair asked. Jim made 'go ahead' motions with one hand, so he did. "He was asking about you, he thinks you're his vision quest."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Vision quest. It's where a youth goes off by himself, usually outside. He'll fast until he receives a sign. The Chinook believe that's when they learn what their role in the tribe should be." Blair poked Jim's chest gently. "Clifford said 'you' travel with a black cat, like a mountain lion. He wanted to know if I ever saw it."  
  
Jim looked dumbfounded. "H-he must have been… shit, Sandburg. No food or water, he was seeing things."  
  
Blair shook his head. "That's the point man. In their culture, they 'see' things. Just thought you should know."  
  
"Okay," Jim said, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. "Actually, it's not too different from what I remember in Peru…"  
  
Blair leaned forward, almost overbalancing on his crutches. "You rem –"  
  
"Not now, Chief." Jim stopped him with a raised hand. "Come on."   
  
Blair made a mental note to pry, er, ask Jim later about Peru. He followed his friend back into the living room. Their guests hadn't moved. Jim took a seat on the sofa facing the old woman, waiting till Blair joined him before addressing her.  
  
"Is there a reason you wanted to talk to us?"  
  
She nodded. "Our spirit powers are wise and appear in many forms. I have never heard of one using a suyapee before. Then my daughter tells me she sees this suyapee as well and I wanted to come see, too."  
  
One thing Blair admired about his friend was Jim's ability to keep a straight face. When Jim glanced over to Blair and raised one eyebrow a fraction of an inch, Blair responded. "Suyapee. That's us, white man."  
  
"Oh." Jim smiled at the woman. "Why would your spirit power visit Clifford through me?"  
  
She straightened in her chair, her hands resting on her knees. "Clifford is a very good student. He has learned the history of our people. He has studied our ways. He found his sacred place. He did not eat or drink for three days. He swam. He waited. The vision appeared as a great black cat. Then you were there. How else could you know to find him? The spirit guided you."  
  
Jim nodded.   
  
"Our ways must seem strange." Annabel smiled, head tilting a little as she glanced from Jim to Blair. "But you know some of our ways?"  
  
"I'm a student of many cultures," Blair said. "I know the Chinook have lived here for a very long time."  
  
"This is a fact." She turned to her grandson. "Clifford can tell you."  
  
On cue, the boy wet his lips, his gaze sliding downward as he spoke, his words picked carefully. He was on the spot with his grandmother. Blair knew tradition insisted that each generation retell the lore of their history exactly as the previous generation shared it to them. No mistakes were allowed.   
  
"Old man South Wind long ago was traveling north along the coast of the Pacific Ocean. Eventually nearing the mouth of the Columbia River. There he met Giant Woman and told her he was hungry. But she had no food. She lent him a net and explained he could catch fish with it. Old man South Wind took the net and headed for the gray waters of the Pacific. He dragged it along the ocean floor until he caught a small whale, which he brought ashore." He shuffled his feet, glancing at his grandmother who nodded approvingly.  
  
"Giant Woman told him to cut the whale lengthwise, from head to tail, but he cut from side to side. It was quicker. The whale turned into a large bird. It rose up; its wings shook the earth. Old Man South Wind and Giant Woman saw that it was really Thunderbird and were in awe. It flew to the mouth of the Columbia. On top of Saddle Mountain, it built a nest and laid eggs. One day, when Thunderbird flew away, Giant Woman climbed to the nest. She cracked an egg, but it was bad, and she threw it down the mountain. She cracked another and another until she had broken them all and hurled them from the peak. Each time an egg landed at the mountain base, it became a Chinook. This is how the first Chinook men, women and children came to be." Clifford ended with a minuscule shrug of his shoulders, as if to say 'don't as me why, that's what I was told'.  
  
Blair would have paid a month's worth of student loans for a video camera just then. How many generations had repeated that very same story? This is what made anthropology so incredible, so intoxicatingly fascinating.  
  
"Thank you," Jim said simply. "We were just getting ready to eat dinner. Would you both like to join us?"  
  
Annabel smiled.   
  
Blair sighed. His exhaustion lost, his pain a memory.   
  
Make that two months and a car payment.   
  
The crab was sweet, fresh and tender. They all ate it by hand, dipping it into melted butter and tearing into a large round sourdough loaf.   
  
Blair managed to get more stories from Annabel. Jim knew she was enjoying her role. She'd pause once in a while, giving Clifford that look. The one Jim remembered his sixth-grade teacher, Miss. Abby, would nail him with. That woman always seemed to know when Jim had spent the night before goofing off with Steven in the backyard with a football instead of doing homework.  
  
But Clifford passed with flying colors, four out of five times. On the fifth, she'd gently correct a word or phrase.   
  
When the last leg was cracked open and the final crust of bread consumed, they all wiped the butter from their face and arms. Blair and Clifford were banished to the living room while Jim and Annabel cleaned. There wasn't much to do.  
  
"I can get this," Jim said as he gathered the plates.  
  
She ran the water, filling the sink with suds. "As my grandson would say: no sweat." She cackled lightly.  
  
"Blair would say: no sweat, dude," Jim added as he set a short pile of dirty dishes at her right elbow.   
  
"Or bro," she answered.  
  
"That one, too." He reached under the cabinet for a spray bottle of water with bleach and ripped off a few paper towels. "I'll dry in a second. Want to get this table wiped down."  
  
Jim made short work of the table and returned to her side with a dish towel to dry. The woman seemed content to silently and thoroughly wash every plate before handing it to Jim. Her fingers bore the early signs of arthritis, but her grip never faltered.  
  
"My daughter told me Blair was beaten."  
  
"We had two men break in while I was jogging. They roughed him up," Jim said. "That's why I was carrying a gun. Sorry if I startled you."  
  
She waved a soapy hand. "You are a defender. That is to be expected."  
  
Jim caught her profile briefly. Had she nailed him as ex-military? A soldier? Or was he 'screaming cop' like Blair insisted?  
  
"You came here to rest, for Blair to rest. Why did these men break in?"  
  
"I'm not sure. The police have our report and they're looking into it."  
  
"Folks are so selfish. They see something. They take it. My people would trade for what they wanted. They traveled up and down the coast and inland, all the way to the plateau. We traded with other tribes and suyapee." She finished her last glass and handed it over, pulling the drain. "We even created a common language used by all people in the area."  
  
"I'm a police officer. I wish people would trade more and steal less," Jim said. "A community where everyone has something to contribute and barter sounds pretty good to me. Might even put me out of a job."  
  
She wiped her hands, eyeing him knowingly. "Your tribe will never see a time that you are not needed. You're too important." She grinned at Jim. "We've taken up too much of your time. You and Blair are good hosts. Thank you for dinner."  
  
Jim had a problem. He wasn't about to let this elderly woman walk four plus miles back to town. It would be dark by the time she arrived. He found it hard to believe she'd walked all this way out to begin with.   
  
Yet, he wasn't willing to leave Blair alone. And the four of them wouldn't fit in the truck – legally, anyway. He wasn't one of those folks that liked putting people in the open bed of a truck.  
  
"My son will come for us," Annabel said. "Can I use your phone?"  
  
That's what happened. Blair was still playing Yahtzee with Clifford by the time the boy's Uncle George arrived. He shook hands with both men. He was shorter than Blair but fifty pounds heavier with thick dark hair in a crew cut a few weeks past its trim. If he was surprised at the fact his nephew and mother were in two total strangers' home, he didn't show it.  
  
"You work out of Ilwaco?" Jim asked as he followed them out into the man's old beige Chevy truck. The original tailgate was missing and someone had fashioned one out of wood.  
  
"I do. It's a co-op," George said.  
  
"Do you know a Steven McKnight? He works for one of the crab markets."   
  
George shook his head. "I don't know him. The crab markets have a lot of part timers, folks just move on, find different jobs. It's hard to keep up with all the new faces."  
  
"Yeah, that makes sense."   
  
"Thank you again, Jim," Annabel said.  
  
"You're welcome. We enjoyed having you both." Jim smiled down at Annabel as the woman patted his hand.  
  
After they were gone, Jim found Blair watching him from the doorway. He recognized the look on his friend's face.  
  
"What are you thinking, Chief?" Jim asked, shooing him backwards into the house and closing the door. The temperature outside had dropped. The weather was changing. Wind sang in the lodge pole pines growing in the hollow between the two bluffs.  
  
"I think Annabel knows you're a sentinel, Jim."   
  
Blair's cheeks were flushed. Not a lot, but Jim could tell. Blair swayed; his balance off from improperly positioned crutches. The swelling on his lip had gone down but his black eye was in full bloom.   
  
"You ready to hit the sack?"   
  
Blair looked annoyed. "Did you hear what I said?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Well, what do you think?"  
  
"I think you're right. She's figured out a few things. She probably has her own name for it, though." Jim locked the door. "You're going to bed, Sandburg."  
  
"Figured you say that."  
  
The next day Blair followed Jim into the coffee shop. He'd woken that morning feeling off. Everyone always said bruises hurt worse the following day and he tended to agree. It had taken serious effort on his part to get up, shower and get dressed. Hell, it hurt to blink. Getting Jim not to cancel the plan had taken major effort. It was hard to hide the fact from a sentinel you ached in every joint and that your body was peppered with fist-sized bruises. But Blair had managed to get his way, a minor miracle.  
  
Now they were back at the small city dock. Had this been Cascade, two men sitting in a truck parked on the street wouldn't even get a second look. But Ilwaco's entire business district could fit inside one of Cascade's shopping malls and still leave half the parking lot empty. Jim had decided they'd stake out the marina from a coffee shop.   
  
"What'll have, folks?" a man in a tattered, stained apron asked.  
  
"I'll take a tall latte, two shots please." Blair pulled his wallet out, managing not to drop his right crutch. "My treat, Jim."  
  
"Same," Jim answered. "With raspberry."  
  
Blair had to grin. His friend was becoming a latte junkie. It wouldn't be long before they would have their own machine at the loft. He paid and joined Jim at a small round table near the enormous windows. The drinks were delivered a few minutes later.  
  
"What time do the crab boats come in?" Jim asked the owner.  
  
"They've been coming in most of the morning. I've heard the bar's getting rough. Looks like the pots are getting dropped up river this morning."   
  
They each took a tentative sip of coffee. Blair set his too hot drink down and studied the marina, bay, and wide stretch of river beyond. Sure enough, a crab boat was coming into the marina, following a maze-like course of red and green buoys that seemed random.  
  
"This place must have some serious sand bars or something. Notice how the boats can't come straight in?"  
  
Jim nodded. "Way I understand it, the river shifts the sand around every year. Boats have to pay attention to the buoys or risk running aground." He looked back at the counter. The owner was busy with another customer. "I'm going to try and listen in." Jim tilted his head toward the adjacent business, the crab market.  
  
"Okay," Blair scooted his chair closer. "Use your coffee to keep from zoning, man. Smell the aroma, feel the heat through the cup."  
  
Jim wrapped his hand around the disposable paper cup and took a deep breath. "Okay, here I go."  
  
Blair took guard. He eyed the occupants of the room, worried one of them would make a loud noise or something. Jim was vulnerable when he did this. This is why a sentinel needed someone to help him. He needed to keep sharp, warn Jim.  
  
"I can hear two men talking…." Jim closed his eyes. "One guy's name is Steve."  
  
"What are they saying?" Blair whispered.  
  
"Something about a schedule. Nah, it's just the tides chart, I think." Jim fell silent, but still listened. After a few minutes he shook his head, blinking. "Need a break." He lifted his cup to his lips. "Lots of stuff going on over there."  
  
"I'll bet. Your control is getting so much better, Jim."  
  
"It would be easier if I could find a way to keep it under visual surveillance." He frowned and rubbed his forehead. "I might wander over there and look for a place to hide."  
  
When Blair started to say he'd go along, Jim cut him off.  
  
"Don't even go there. You'll stay put." Jim looked at the crutches leaning against the table. "Those put the big kibosh on your involvement in covert operations."  
  
God, Jim was becoming a total boss-o-rama on this trip.  
  
"Don't go all mulish, Chief." Jim smiled at him. "I'm not even sure yet if I'm moving from the chair. Those homemade brownies are calling to me."  
  
Blair had to snicker. "You just ate breakfast."  
  
"Did you miss the part where I said 'homemade'?" He pointed to his nose. "I'm smelling fresh, maybe this morning."  
  
"Well, in that case… we are on vacation. It's our duty to indulge. You're buying, right? It's your turn." Blair pointed to the coffee.  
  
"I bought the crab yesterday."  
  
"Of which you ate one third. And there were four of us eating."  
  
"Can I help it if you three were slow?"  
  
Jim bought the brownies. Blair knew he would. He just liked to complain. They were fresh, with nuts and frosting. The chocolate slid down like silk on ice and tasted rich.   
  
"Man, is it the ocean air that makes everything taste so good?" Blair asked.  
  
Jim held up a hand, his face suddenly hard as he chewed. He was hearing something. "Someone just asked that Steve guy what happened to his face." He stood, tossing the final bite into his mouth.   
  
"Jim –"   
  
"No way, Sandburg," Jim said, cutting him off. "You stay put."  
  
Before Blair could protest or even get his crutches under his armpits, Jim was out the door and around the side of the building. Blair tracked him through the window until he had ducked around the corner.  
  
Damn. He smacked a palm down. Recovering from being shot was really throwing a monkey wrench into his life. He was Jim's back up. With this stupid hole in his leg, he'd been reduced to just another one of Jim's responsibilities.  
  
The large warehouse was on the end of a line of businesses that bordered the water. A large asphalt lot was used to store tall towers of hockey puck shaped crab pots, stacked over ten feet high. Each crab pot was constructed from a steel frame wrapped in a wire mesh. Bright floats were stored within the pots, secured with coils of rope. They made a colorful collection.   
  
Jim used the maze-like layout to ease close to the open ended warehouse. A forklift drove by, industriously moving around large crates. Men in yellow bibbed rain pants worked inside, moving pots, unloading sacks from a delivery truck.   
  
Jim zoomed in on their faces, unable to spot anyone matching Steve's damaged face. He edged closer, trusting the crab pots to keep him from being spotted. The salty smell was strong and Jim kept his sense of smell in check.   
  
Which one of these guys was the one?   
  
A heavyset man with a droopy mustache called to the crew from the back of the warehouse. They responded, setting down whatever they were doing and walking toward the docks. Jim could see a boat pulling to a loading area. One of the crab boats was back.   
  
Okay, none of those men had so much as an infected pimple on their face. Had Steve already left? Maybe he was inside the building where the public came to buy the seafood. It was worth checking out. Jim started to back away from his cove of crab pots. The sound of the forklift was coming near. It suddenly dawned on him the forklift driver was one person he hadn't had a chance to look at yet.   
  
Jim turned just as the first stack of heavy crab pots tilted toward him.   
  
His coffee finished, Blair sat and watched five ducks search the strip of grass between the docks and the sidewalk for food. Two were males, mallards by the looks of them. The other three had the drab markings common with the female.   
  
He twisted in his chair. No clock anywhere he could see. How long had Jim been gone? That boat was nearly unloaded now. Blair didn't like this.  
  
Something's wrong.  
  
It was rough trying to manage the glass swinging door and the crutches at the same time. The owner saw his problem and scurried out from the counter.  
  
"Thanks," Blair said when the door pulled back and he planted both crutches out on the sidewalk and swung through the doorway.   
  
"Have a nice day," the owner called out.  
  
Jim had gone right, following a narrow opening between the two buildings, so narrow Blair had a devil of a time getting through. What was up with this town? Didn't they have building codes or something? He was panting by the time he reached the street side. The walkway opened up into a large lot, filled with round shaped traps.  
  
No cars on the street. No pedestrians walking down the sidewalk. It looked like all the employees were down on the dock. So where was Jim?  
  
A black shadow shot by, low to the ground and Blair heard a growl. He turned his head to catch the source but only saw more of the traps.  
  
"Jim?" He kept his voice low, a harsh whisper, the type the movie victim always used before the serial killer pounced. Blair shivered in the cool wind, feeling more than a little exposed.  
  
He had to stop reading Steven King.  
  
"Jim." He called out louder now, not caring who heard him. Jim would answer, damn it. Even if to tell him to shut up and go back and wait for him.  
  
Another growl, feral and threatening, coming from somewhere within the highest stacks. Blair followed the sound, barely managing to maneuver in the tight aisles. Something was wrong further ahead. The orderly rows were messed up. Some of the traps were spilled over, laying on their side, on top of each other… on top of something that looked like a…  
  
"Jim!" Blair moved as fast as he could, tossing the crutches aside when he reached the first trap. He hooked both hands into the sturdy wire mesh and lifted. "Ah, Shit." God, these things were heavier than they looked. The frames were steel bars. Heavy coils of rope added to the weight.   
  
He could see Jim laying beneath the mess, unnaturally still. A shaft of fear pierced his chest. "Jim, come on, man."   
  
There was nowhere to throw these damn things. They were too tightly packed. In desperation, Blair started pitching them over the tops of the stacks. He was on the third one when someone shouted.  
  
"What the hell's going on?"  
  
Blair didn't slow down. "Need help… man down!" he gasped as he worked. Jim was still covered two layers down. He still hadn't so much as twitched a muscle.   
  
Hands appeared, helping lift and move traps out of the way. Blair's vision was blocked by yellow rain gear as more men appeared and forced him back. When the last trap came off, he could see the bright red blood staining one of Jim's shoulders, ruining his jacket.   
  
Jim lay on his side. His legs were bent as if he had tried to curl into a ball. Blair elbowed his way back in front, ignoring the shooting pain in his leg as he dropped down next to his friend.   
  
"Call an ambulance, Terry!" someone shouted.  
  
Blair's hands were shaking so badly, he couldn't feel the pulse at first on Jim's neck, but it was there. He could see the rise and fall of his friend's chest. "Jim? Hey, man? You with us?"   
  
"Best not move him, kid," the same voice advised. "Might have a broken neck."  
  
Blair knew that, but he still mentally cursed the guy for saying the words out loud. Jim couldn't be hurt. He couldn't. The thought of Jim broken and forever damaged stole his breath. "He's okay. You're going to be okay, Jim."  
  
It would be nice if the man would open his eyes, though. Blair wasn't asking for much.   
  
Someone appeared with a blanket and Blair helped to tuck in the edges. One part of his brain worried if the blanket's roughness might irritate Jim's skin. But it was a small part and the rest of Blair's brain told it to shut up. Another person had a sterile trauma dressing and Blair gently held pressure on the bleeding wound. Jim remained still and unresponsive during the entire wait for the fire department's arrival. They came with sirens and manpower, moved Blair back, fitted Jim with a white collar around his neck and rolled him over onto a yellow plastic backboard.   
  
Blair couldn't stop staring at the dark puddle of blood already beginning to thicken on the asphalt from exposure. God, that was a lot of blood.  
  
"Hey, buddy?" A fireman leaned over him.   
  
Jim was being lifted into a gurney. Blair blinked up at the fireman.  
  
"You going to ride in with him?" He pointed at Blair's hands. "You need to get those looked at."  
  
Blair's hands were covered in blood, not all Jim's either. The wire on the traps must have torn some skin. He looked at the warehouse workers, seeing the gloves they wore. When Jim started to get rolled away, Blair suddenly scrambled to get off the ground. "My crutches, do you see them?"  
  
"Here." A familiar looking man in rubber yellow rain pants held them out. "I'm the foreman, Ed Tradel. I don't know what happened here, I hope your friend is okay."  
  
Blair nodded, taking the crutches. He only wanted to follow that gurney. He needed to make sure the doctors didn't give Jim anything that might hurt him, because he knew Jim was going to be pissed when he woke up.   
  
And he was going to wake up. Blair wasn't willing to accept anything else.   
  
"I'll call the hospital and check up on him, okay?" Ed added as Blair started crutch-swinging toward the ambulance parked nearby.  
  
"Yeah, fine." Blair kept his eyes on Jim as they loaded him in. "I can ride with him?" he asked the fireman shadowing him to the ambulance.  
  
"That's right." He opened the side door. "I'll treat those hands on the way. So, what's wrong with your leg, anyway?"  
  
Geeze, here they were again.  
  
Blair leaned forward in his chair, curling his bandaged hands toward his stomach. His palms and fingers were torn, they ached dully but he didn't notice. His attention was fixed on the distant doorway to Jim's treatment room. They'd taken Jim into the same one he'd been in, but Blair had been banished to the waiting room.  
  
A clean and pleasant room to wait in, but lonely. Doctor Charlie and Jolene were busy working on Jim. Tired of staring, he turned his gaze to a collection of glass floats. They were displayed neatly on a shelf behind the empty receptionist's counter. Round balls - some the size of tennis balls, others larger - were lined up behind protective glass. There was even a 'rolling pin' shaped float. Blair remembered reading the Chinese and Japanese used the floats to support their fishing nets. Sometimes a float broke free and the ocean currents would bring them to the Washington coast.  
  
Blair looked back to Jim's room, wishing he had enhanced hearing. What was happening in there? He rubbed his eyes, annoyed with the prickling feeling that attacked them. He needed to keep it together. They were a long way from Cascade. Jim needed him.   
  
He let his focus roam the room. Just him and the glass floats.   
  
Blair's cell phone was in the pack. He tried to remember where that was… in the truck, he guessed. He didn't take it into the coffee shop. He spotted a phone. Standing awkwardly, he hobbled toward the counter. They'd taken his crutches. Blair didn't think it was intentional, just everyone was too busy with Jim to give them back.   
  
'Nine' got him an outside line. Promising to reimburse the department, Blair dialed collect and Rhonda answered. Just hearing her voice brought a touch of home.  
  
"What's wrong, Blair?" Rhonda demanded after assuring the operator she'd accept the charges.  
  
"Um… hi, Rhonda." Blair swallowed. God, if Jim walks out there with just a bump on his head, he was going to be so pissed. He'd better keep Jim's condition under wraps with the bullpen. "Is Simon there?"  
  
"No, he's in a meeting. Joel's around here somewhere. I can find him for you."  
  
"No," Blair said, leaning against the counter, his disappointment so acute he could taste it on the back of his throat. "No, that's okay. I'll… I'll call back."  
  
"Blair? You sure? Everything okay? Where's – "  
  
"See ya, Rhonda. Thanks anyway." Blair dropped the handset before she could finish her questions. Turning his back to the counter, he took a deep breath. The row of green, plastic chairs seemed a football field away. He turned his head, about the same distance to Jim's treatment room. From this spot in the room he could hear the low murmur of the doctor's voice.  
  
Decision made, Blair limped toward the voices, following the wall and leaning against it for support. He really needed to find his crutches. Entering the room quietly, no one noticed him. They were crowded around the treatment bed. A monster of a machine on rollers with thick cables trailing, crowded half the room. X-Ray, Blair guessed.  
  
"Mr. Sandburg."   
  
Oops, busted.  
  
Thankfully the doctor didn't seem annoyed, even stepped back a little, revealing Jim's upper body, chest and neck. The cervical collar was off. That had to be a good sign. Certainly they'd have left it on otherwise. The doctor was still talking. Blair couldn't actually focus on the words, but he didn't sound mad. He wanted a better look at Jim.  
  
"… down before you fall down," the doctor's last words achieved clarity.  
  
Okay, Blair could do that. "How's Jim?"  
  
"I'm fine, Chief."  
  
"Jim!" He'd just started to lower himself into a chair, but bolted back to his feet.   
  
Jim looked tired, his face creased with fatigue and pain. The doctor had a long scissor-like device with a black thread in hand and was messing with the wound on Jim's head, giving it a neat line of sutures, the last knot going into its place. Jim's clothes were still bloody, but God, he was awake and talking.   
  
"You okay? What happened?" Blair was at the bed, practically standing on the doctor's toes.  
  
"Go sit down, Sandburg," Jim ordered. "You look like sh – " He glanced over at Jolene. "Er… awful."  
  
Blair compromised. He managed to pull the chair away from the wall and sat down close to Jim's bed.   
  
The doctor snipped his last stitch and patted Jim's shoulder. "Sit tight, son. Be right back."  
  
Alone with his friend, Blair felt a verbal dam inside his chest burst. "Ohmygod, Jim. You didn't come back. I found you under all those traps. You weren't moving. I could-"  
  
Jim groaned, holding up a hand. "Killer headache, here."  
  
Feeling like a certified jerk, Blair snapped his jaw closed. Jim's eyes were screwed shut, his breathing strained.  
  
"Sorry," Blair said, whispering. He checked the door. They were alone. "Want to try turning down the pain?"  
  
"I've been… can't," Jim admitted. He cracked one eye open. "Can you help?"  
  
"Duh." Blair leaned forward, laying a hand on his arm. "Isn't that why you put up with me? Okay, first thing. I don't like your breathing rate. Look at me…"   
  
It took over five minutes, but Jim's face finally relaxed in relief. He patted Blair's hand, then raised his head. "What's wrong with you?"  
  
Holding up both hands, showing a few Band-Aids, Blair grinned. He couldn't help it. Jim was okay. Everything else just seemed insignificant. "I fought the wire mesh and lost."  
  
"What about the leg?"  
  
Okay, that was unexpected. "Jim, don't you remember? Quinn shot me."  
  
But Jim seemed truly confused. "I remember we went after him. We had to jump into the river…" He looked panicked. "Where's Simon?"  
  
"He's good, man. Everything's cool, honest. He's at work, back in Cascade."  
  
The doctor picked that moment to re-enter the room. He held large films in one hand, eyeing Jim and Blair over his glasses.  
  
"Doc, Jim's lost days. He doesn't remember anything since we came down here."  
  
"Understandable," the doctor said. "And common, actually."  
  
"But?" Blair took a deep breath. Okay, he could deal with this. "He'll get it back, right? The memory?"  
  
"Probably. Sometimes the incidents directly preceding the injury are never recovered."  
  
Jim frowned. "Chief, where's here? What's happening?"  
  
Blair shook his head. This was not good.  
  
Neither man could drive the truck, Jim with his head injury and Blair with his leg. The ticket home appeared in the form of Deputy Nettle. She arrived at the clinic, took Jim's truck keys and made arrangements for one of the other officers to drive it out to the beach house. Blair's crutches had been returned. Jim was released with a cursory lecture on head injuries.   
  
Nettle drove them home.  
  
And she was not happy.  
  
"Could you explain to me one more time how Jim ended up under a dozen crab pots?"   
  
Blair was sitting in the back of a department issued Chevy Blazer. Jim got to sit up front, some sort of cop privilege apparently.   
  
He looked at Jim. How much should he admit to? Jim hadn't wanted the local cops involved yet. Blair cleared his throat. "I don't know. I was in the coffee shop down the way." Well, that much was the absolute truth.  
  
"Ah huh." She graced Jim with an appraising look. "Jim?"  
  
"I'm still drawing a blank, sorry."  
  
She had this thing she did while driving. Blair picked up on it right away. Nettle would lightly slap the steering wheel with her palms and sort of wring it in her hands, twisting.  
  
Or was she visualizing their necks?  
  
But she fell silent and in no time Blair was hobbling toward the back door of the beach house. Jim's Ford was parked out front. While Jim went to change out of his bloody shirt, Nettle helped to make the sofa into Jim's bed. Jim reappeared in a T-shirt and sweatpants.   
  
"Thanks for bringing us back," Jim said.  
  
She nodded. "You'll call me if you remember?"  
  
"You bet." Jim sat on the edge of his bed. He looked exhausted.  
  
Blair followed her toward the door, adding his own thanks. With a final skeptical look, that Blair tried to deflect the best he could with an innocent smile, she was gone. He carefully locked the back door and returned to the living room. Jim was asleep.   
  
For the first time since he got shot, Blair was awake and Jim was asleep. What should he do?   
  
Jim's safe.  
  
Check.  
  
House is secure?  
  
He hobbled to the door facing the beach, finding it locked.  
  
Check.   
  
Still, Blair felt they were too exposed.  
  
The room had a weird tint to it, as if someone had painted the air within in hues of blue. Jim rolled over and blinked. His head ached a little, not too bad. His eyes scanned the room. He saw the reason for the strange light.   
  
Blair had tacked sheets up over the windows.   
  
Why? Blair said they were down here to rest. Something must be going on. Something Blair hadn't told him. Jim cursed his faulty memory, which ended with their jump into the river.   
  
Yet… okay, now he was remembering holding Quinn, bending him over the entrance to a well.   
  
Soft snores called his attention to a corner. Jim lifted his head. Blair was sprawled in a chair, head tilted back awkwardly, jaw gaping open in sleep.  
  
What time was it? Late apparently. The mantel clock showed the little hand past the four. He rolled carefully into an upright position and gingerly touched his head. How had Blair managed to get the pain down earlier today? He tried adjusting the level, just to see if he could. His control felt sloppy, but he got a result. Obviously Jim still had a lot of practice ahead of him. Maybe, to some degree, he'd never be able to master this alone.  
  
He looked over at the sleeping man.   
  
What about Blair? How long before the kid found out Jim couldn't completely manage without help? He couldn't want to spend his entire career helping Jim.   
  
Jim shook off the dismal thoughts and stood. He was starving.   
  
Moving with deliberateness, instinctive of someone whose head felt ready to fall off at any time, Jim went into the kitchen and fixed a sandwich. He found Blair had draped more sheets in this room as well. Something told him the linen closet was bare. Still, Jim was impressed with Blair's grasp for the obvious.   
  
Jim retrieved a package of deli cut roast beef and crisp romaine lettuce from the refrigerator. More and more of Simon's rescue from Quinn was emerging from his memory. He smoothed out a generous layer of mayo on thick slices of soft honey wheat bread. Now the events unfolded like a bad movie; Blair getting shot, the run into the mine. By the time he sat down at the table with his sandwich, Jim remembered why they went to the coffee shop earlier that morning.  
  
A snort from the living room sounded. Blair thumped in after a few minutes. "Hey," he said, leaning heavily on his crutches. Even with a few hours sleep, Blair looked exhausted.  
  
"Hey." Jim looked down at his friend's leg and the bandaged hands. "You okay?"  
  
The crutches made thudding noises on the linoleum, with occasional squeaks from the rubber tips. Blair angled for the empty chair. "Yeah, I was going to ask you the same. How's the head?"  
  
"Not bad. Been sitting here, remembering."  
  
That got the younger man's attention. "Really?" His eyes held a desperate hopefulness, his body rigid.   
  
Jim nodded. "Sit. Relax." He pushed the plate containing the uneaten sandwich half towards Blair, still holding his half in one hand. He opened the paper napkin and laid it down on the table to catch the crumbs.  
  
Blair dropped into the chair and leaned the crutches against the wall. "How much, man?"  
  
"Up to the coffee shop." Jim frowned. "I've been sitting here trying to remember the rest, but I can't."  
  
"You said you heard someone talking to Steve, saying something about his face." Blair leaned forward expectantly.  
  
It was so frustrating not to remember. Jim bit his lip, vision fixed on the table top while his mind struggle to push past the block. He shook his head. "Nah, I'm not getting it."  
  
"Okay, okay. Just relax for now." Blair fiddled with a loose piece of tape on his palm, then just tucked in under the wrappings. "It'll probably come to you later." He picked up the sandwich and lifted a corner of the bread before taking a bite. "Ummm, good."  
  
"I'll make us a couple more." Jim stood, cramming the last of his into his mouth.  
  
Blair continued to talk while Jim fixed their early dinner. "I meant to make some soup or something. I just sat down to rest a second, notice the windows? Anyway, guess I nodded off. Nettle knows, man. She's gotta know we were doing more than just drinking coffee at that shop. We gonna tell her?"  
  
"There's not a lot to share. I wish I remember this morning." Jim paused, glancing over at the phone. "I'll call Brown, get him to run McKnight's name. We might learn something."  
  
"That's a pretty common name and we don't have a date of birth."  
  
Jim had to agree. "It'll take some digging, but he might find something. I'll have him check Oregon's records, too. Take a few days, though."  
  
After dinner, Jim called. Brown was able to return their call within the same hour.  
  
"What are you and Hairboy up to?" Brown asked.  
  
Jim cradled the phone to his ear, pen and paper ready. "Just tracking down the owner of some stuff Sandburg accidentally received at a swap meet. Whatcha got for me?"  
  
"Well, I've got a Steve W. McKnight, aka Stephen M. Knight, born in sixty-four. Kicked out of Portland University two years ago, some indiscretion involving missing funds. He drops out of sight after that. Gives his last known in Seaside, Oregon. Might be your guy."  
  
"Yeah, that's a little over an hour from here." Jim wrote down the address. "Any idea what he's doing for a living?"  
  
"Fishing industry," Brown answered. "That help?"  
  
"Yeah, thanks."  
  
"No prob, bro," Brown said, dropping the levity. "Seriously, Jim. Rhonda said Blair called before, sounded upset. You guys okay?"  
  
"We're good." Jim eyed Blair, still sitting at the kitchen table. "Thanks anyway."  
  
"What did you find out?" Blair asked after Jim returned the phone.  
  
Jim quickly repeated what Brown had said. "I remember seeing a Portland University mug in the office at the interpretive center. Might belong to him."  
  
Blair lightly drummed the table with his fingers. "I know some guys at Portland U."  
  
The new phone cord was long, able to stretch from the living room into the kitchen. Jim pushed it towards Blair, along with the pen and paper. He cleaned the kitchen while Blair made several calls. It was interesting listening to the kid's interview style. The first call, Blair went straight to the question and moved on. One the next one, he got around to asking his questions after several long minutes of catch up and chit chat. Jim knew at one point Blair was speaking to a woman, someone Blair must have dated, or wanted to date. That call took the longest and even earned him a tentative date during the summer; a trip to Mt. Hood for a crash course in mountain biking.   
  
Jim didn't like the term 'crash' being used.   
  
"Okay," Blair said, sounding pleased. He tapped the notepad with the pen. "Knight was accused of stealing from the university. Seems he was an up and rising junior history professor. He pissed off a few of the old timers. He filed some bogus expenditure reports, small time amounts, a few thousand. Got caught and they canned him."  
  
"Anyone heard from him lately?"  
  
"Nope," Blair said. "They don't sound very sorry about it, either. Sounds like he burned major bridges on his way out the door."  
  
Jim couldn't sleep. Daytime naps always threw him off schedule. Even as a ranger, his body resisted catnaps during the day. Whenever he did, he'd lie for hours in bed after the mission, staring at the ceiling of whatever temporary base housing he had been given.   
  
Not that his life as a cop provided better sleeping patterns.   
  
Jim let his hearing glide out the walls and patrol the grounds around the house. Raccoons were out and about. Three of them were trying earnestly to work the tight fitting lid off the garbage can. He tried to remember what they'd put inside. It came to him; one of the oranges had gone soft. He'd tossed it out earlier.   
  
Jim considered getting up and just fishing the thing out of the can. Yeah, it was better than picking up garbage on the beach for the rest of the week. The room was cold. They'd let the fireplace go out when Blair started making his 'I'm tired but won't admit it' signs; a few covert yawns, bouts of rapid blinking, and the way he'd list slightly while sitting.   
  
Outside the clouds hid the predawn tentacles of light. The normal morning fog wouldn't be coming. Typical of the Northwest, the weather pattern had taken an unexpected change. They'd be getting wind and rain later today.   
  
Jim watched the furry bandits scamper toward the nearby pine. They turned and regarded him fearlessly, not even bothering to hide. He braved the pine needle carpet with bare feet, retrieved the orange and tossed it to them, then made sure the lid was firmly in place. "Okay, you've got your treat. Now scram."  
  
Back inside, he headed for the bathroom. Blair's snores were deep and even. After he washed, he paused at the doorway and looked in. Blair's body stretched diagonally, head pointed to the corner against the wall, his bare feet uncovered and hanging over the bedside. Which was surprising, Blair didn't like cold.  
  
Jim slipped in. If he was careful, Blair would never wake up. As soon as he touched the hot skin of Blair's left ankle, he knew why his friend was subconsciously tossing off the covers.   
  
"Shit." He checked the other leg, the injured one, and found it a fraction hotter. "Sandburg, wake up," he ordered quietly. There was no reason to frighten him.  
  
"Whaiz, 'im?" Blair lifted a mass of curls off the mattress. "Jim?"   
  
Jim moved his hand to Blair's forehead. "You've got a fever, Chief."  
  
"Es'planes my dream," he mumbled grumpily.   
  
"It's not too high, yet anyway." Jim stood straight. "I'll get you some juice and something to bring it down. Be right back."  
  
After downing the aspirin and half a glass of white grape juice, Blair wanted to go back to sleep.   
  
"I need to check your leg." Jim moved down, flipping up the covers, revealing sweatpants.   
  
"Jim, come on. Let me sleep." Blair even sounded feverish.   
  
Jim sniffed the air for the putrid scent of infection. When was the last time he had checked the wound? This business with the journal pages had kept them too busy. "Drop 'em, Junior. I'm pulling my medic rank on you."  
  
As Blair raised his hips, fumbling at the elastic waist band, he grumbled a long string of curses about prying roommates, 'freaking' sentinels with delusions of paranoia and getting locks on bedroom doors.   
  
Jim tuned him out. He unwrapped the bandage. The entrance hole looked a little puffy. "Roll."  
  
Blair was still complaining, muttering darkly into his pillow, as Jim pulled the tape away from the exit wound. Blair jumped as if stung. "Ow! Shit, man!"  
  
"Sorry." Jim's free hand soothed Blair's back, lightly rubbing the T-shirt between his shoulders. "I'll be careful." He could feel the tremors under his hand. He pulled back the gauze and mentally cursed. Infection was setting in. He'd seen plenty in his time and this was in its early stages, but happening none the less. "Are you taking your antibiotics?"  
  
He knew by the sudden tensing, Blair's answer. He hoped he was wrong. "Blair?" he demanded, grinding the word out through a clenched jaw.  
  
"I might have forgotten one… maybe two."  
  
"You idiot!" Jim exploded angrily, pulling the gauze completely off. Blair flinched. Shouting didn't help matters and Jim had to give himself some credit for not smacking the curly head or the closer target.   
  
Jim needed distance. Now. He stormed out, heading for the bathroom and more bandages. While staring at his image in the mirror over the sink, Jim counted to a slow ten. He returned to find Blair still face down on the bed, arms wrapped around his pillow, leaning on his elbows.  
  
"Jim." Blair's voice wavered as Jim dropped down to sit on the mattress' edge. "It's not a big –"  
  
"Stow it," Jim said, calmer than before. "Listen to me, brainiac. If you don't give a shit about your health, how about Simon and me? Ever stop to think how we'd feel? Watching you limp around till you're an old man, knowing you got shot because of us?"  
  
Blair turned to pin Jim with a hostile stare. "I seem to remember a head case with an automatic, man. How's that your fault?"  
  
Jim worked on fashioning a new bandage. "Wade didn't barge into Rainier University and start shooting. You were working with me. I'm responsible for you. It's simple."  
  
Blair dropped his head down on the pillow. "And Simon's responsible for both of us? God, Jim, how do you guys keep up?"  
  
"It's called 'chain of command' and it means more than who gets to yell at who," Jim said. "It means we have a duty to take care of our men." Jim sighed as he finished with the last of the tape. He rubbed his forehead. "Look, Chief. I'm sorry I yelled. I'm just a little frustrated. How can you have the insight one minute to cover the windows and, at the same time, forget basic survival steps to get better?"  
  
Blair relaxed as the anger in the room dissipated. He rolled over on one hip and looked up with an apologetic grin. "Ummm… intermittent brilliance?"   
  
Jim shook his head. Blair was going to make him an old man before his time. Hell, maybe it was already too late. He lightly slapped his friend's hip and feeling the elevated temperature through the thin cotton, he remembered the reason for the argument.   
  
"Get dressed. We're going to the hospital in Astoria."  
  
"Now?"  
  
"Yes, now. This is serious. Did you take the medicine today?"   
  
Blair looked thoughtful. "Today today? Or yesterday today?"  
  
It scared Jim that he understood. Certainly this was a sign he was slipping into insanity. "Yesterday today."  
  
"No." Blair blushed. "We were busy. I forgot."  
  
"Okay." Jim reached for the tote bag on the floor. He had watched Blair pack and knew the pill bottle was there. He found the pills, took off the childproof cap and handed it over. "I'll get dressed. Then get the truck warmed up."  
  
Blair stared glumly out the window.   
  
God, he was an idiot. He'd meant to take the pills faithfully. The doctor had made it clear what an infection could do to his body. The problem was just… he sometimes got too focused on things. And this journal mystery was fascinating.   
  
The road was windy, rising and falling as it followed the coastal cliffs. A light mist darkened the asphalt, making it shiny. Even though Jim drove cautiously, the truck lurched over a rough spot and Blair couldn't keep the yelp from escaping. Damn, his leg was tender.  
  
"Sorry."   
  
"It's okay." Blair shifted in the seat, leaning a little toward Jim. His thigh hurt to even sit. "What's the doctor going to do?"  
  
"He'll probably clean the site and put you on stronger antibiotics," Jim said.  
  
"Can't we wait for the clinic to open?"  
  
"No, that's still hours away. I can get you to Astoria in half the time."  
  
Blair did feel hot and achy. His scalp itched.   
  
"SHIT!" Jim shouted as he wrenched the wheel hard to the left.   
  
An off-white truck appeared out of the fog and swerved into their lane. Blair braced for impact. But Jim was quick and had their truck off the road, sliding over the gravel shoulder, heading directly for the…  
  
"Jiimmm!"   
  
Blair's number one fear was driving off a cliff. He didn't know why, but it was. The only thing that saved them from crashing hundreds of feet to the rocks below was an old chain link fence. The height was terrifyingly spectacular, like standing on top the roof at the police station.  
  
Jim managed to swing the truck so they broadsided the fence with a screeching sound of metal on metal. Blair watched the diamond pattern of the links scrap against Jim's window, expecting it to fail and send them crashing to their deaths.  
  
Miraculously, the truck stopped. Too scared to take a breath, Blair was certain the fence was still the only thing keeping them from falling. Suddenly Blair's door opened. The cold, moist air ruffled his hair as an arm hooked his neck in a fierce hold.   
  
"Hey!" The rest of Blair's protest ended upon feeling a gun barrel against his temple. His upper body was turned toward Jim, his back pressed against a solid chest.  
  
Jim looked furious. "What the hell's going on, Ramsey?"   
  
Ramsey? Blair tried to place the name. Annabel was a Ramsey. But this arm did not belong to a little old lady. And she didn't smell like fish. Understanding came. Annabel's son, George.  
  
"Unbuckle," George ordered.  
  
Blair's hand managed to hit the button. The truck motor was still running, blowing heat through the vents. Blair stifled a cry of pain as he was hauled out of the truck by his hair to stand on his bad leg. The arm returned, holding him upright. Another man was standing to one side. He was taller, pale skinned with a long bald stripe that ran over the top of his head. Blair guessed him to be somewhere in his early to middle thirties. Dark hair grew over his ears. Blair got a look at the swollen nose. They'd found Steven McKnight.   
  
George towed Blair backward toward the beige truck.   
  
"Get out," McKnight ordered. He pointed a gun at Jim, handcuffs in his right.  
  
Jim climbed out, standing by the open door. "This is stupid."  
  
"Shut up." McKnight tossed the cuffs down at Jim's feet. "Behind your back." When Jim didn't make a move to pick them up the pressure on Blair's head increased.   
  
"Do it or we kill him," George added.  
  
Jim picked up the cuffs and put them on. Apparently they only had one pair. Blair wondered about that. Where did civilians get handcuffs anyway? It seemed to him those were something that shouldn't be sold without permits.   
  
The next few minutes felt like a bizarre dream, enhanced by the falling mist. Jim was loaded into the open truck bed, tied to a ring bolted into the floor and covered with a heavy, dark green tarp.   
  
Blair got a bad feeling. Okay, well, he already had a bad feeling. Now it was worse.   
  
"Listen guys," Blair said. "This seems a little over the top. Why don –" The arm tightened and Blair decided to shut up.  
  
"We're going for a ride." George's breath was foul. "Get in."  
  
He seemed to have forgotten Blair needed crutches to walk. When George released him and pushed, the injured man fell to his knees in the dirt with a cry of pain.  
  
"Sandburg!" Jim's muted bellow came from the truck bed.  
  
Blair used the open door to pull himself up. "I'm okay, man," he whispered, breathing hard through his mouth to try and control the pain. "Guess I get the front this time."  
  
The truck's front seat was the bench style. Blair got crammed in the middle. George drove and McKnight kept his gun rammed into Blair's ribs. They left Jim's truck on the roadside, engine off and doors locked.   
  
"Where are we going?" Blair asked after a few minutes.  
  
"Shut up," George said.  
  
"I'm just asking."  
  
It was more of a slap than a punch. McKnight delivered it without warning. Normally, the force would have just stung for a few seconds, but McKnight knew what to target.   
  
Blair screamed as the white-hot fire exploded in his thigh. He doubled over, folding in half, his forehead hitting his knees as he choked down a second scream and gasped until his head cleared. He could hear Jim thumping the metal floor, probably kicking it with his bound feet. Blair wanted to soothe his concern, tell him he was okay, but he didn't have the breath.   
  
McKnight yanked him back upright in the seat by his hair. He leaned down, his lips inches from Blair's ear. "How many copies?"  
  
"Wh-what?"  
  
"Of the Journal. How many?"   
  
Another slap and Blair couldn't stop the tears that burned his eyes. He bit his lower lip to keep from crying out. McKnight's fist shook his head.  
  
"One!" Blair blurted. "One, man. At the h-house."  
  
Jim wanted to kill.  
  
He listened to Blair breathing, glad he wasn't gasping anymore. Jim had a pretty good idea what they had done. He flexed his fingers. They itched to circle McKnight's neck.   
  
The truck stopped.   
  
"We're going inside," McKnight was telling Blair. "You're going to get us every copy you made. Got it?"  
  
The truck rocked a bit. They were getting out. He could hear Blair gasping again, trying not to cry out as he was manhandled. Footsteps crunched in gravel, diminishing until they were replaced by steps on the small wooden landing leading to the kitchen door. Blair had his own keys on him. They ordered him to open and they went in.  
  
Jim tracked their movements through the house, very aware that once they got what they wanted, Blair would no longer be needed. Blair played the part of the obedient captive and turned over the set he'd left with his notes. It occurred to Jim they'd been too rushed to get to the hospital. Otherwise Blair would have insisted on bringing it.  
  
Blair was stumbling now. Kitchen chairs scraped, hands slapped the wall. He was using anything he could to keep from falling. They were talking about his computer now. Blair was insisting there was nothing on it. Faint tapping sounds of fingers on the keyboard were picked up. McKnight apparently had to see for himself.   
  
After a few minutes, Blair was dragged back to the truck, shoved back inside and they were off.   
  
Jim flexed his muscles, his arm and back straining. The cuffs were strong, good quality. McKnight had taken the gun. The fact the man knew to search for it told Jim they must know he was a cop. Whatever their intention, they had allowed both Jim and Blair to see their faces. Something told Jim they had no plans to stop until they added murder to their growing list of felonies.   
  
"Sit down," McKnight said, shoving Blair hard.  
  
Even with his hands free, Blair couldn't stop from sprawling over Jim as he landed. "Sorry, man," he mumbled, dizzy with pain.  
  
Jim's face was dark with anger, but he graced Blair with an unexpected look of concern. "Just keep close to me, Chief," Jim whispered. "And stay down, okay?"  
  
Blair nodded, leaning into Jim's shoulder. The boat deck rocked as their kidnappers moved around. He closed his eyes and concentrated on managing his pain and keeping the nausea down. They had pulled into a parking lot for a small rundown marina. After walking a rickety pier, Blair was basically thrown into an old crab boat. Apparently George and McKnight were getting tired of his handicap.  
  
What really amazed Blair was the fact he still had his hands free. Either Blair was not considered much of a threat, or they figured the bandaged hands were no threat to them.   
  
George stood at the wheel while McKnight released the lines from the dock and jumped on board. The twenty-one foot boat was all metal with a covered, open ended wheel house. The back was filled with fishing and crabbing equipment. The boat turned toward the river, following a complicated looking route through the hidden sandbars toward the distant Columbia River.   
  
Blair hurt. He hurt all over. Why was it that an injured leg made even his fingertips ache? It must be the fever, which Blair suspected was up more than when he woke that morning.  
  
"Kidnapping will get you both some prison time," Jim said loudly over the engine noise in a matter-of-fact manner.  
  
So very Jim-like.  
  
Blair opened his eyes. McKnight was guarding them. He kept his gun low, out of sight in case they passed another boat, which – Blair noticed unhappily – didn't appear to be a problem.  
  
"We're not going to prison. But thanks for the information." McKnight looked smug. His switched his gaze to Blair. "What did you think of my journal? I checked you out; you're from Rainier, right?"  
  
Blair nodded. "Anthro."  
  
Leaning on a makeshift seat of crab pots, McKnight idly kicked a loose bullet-shaped float with his foot, sending it into a small pile of similar floats. "Just our luck to have those papers fall into the hands of a fellow scholar. Did you find them a good read?"  
  
Blair realized the guy was actually fishing for a compliment. An idea began to form. "You wrote those journals, didn't you?"  
  
"No." But the man's eyes told a different story. "I found them in an old estate sale."  
  
"Right." Blair didn't mask the disbelief, the sarcasm. "And you just sit around at night reading them for your own pleasure. What's the deal? You fake the journals, make up a few lies. Are you trying to the rock the history world? Get your name in a text book as the guy that revealed the Lewis and Clark story?"  
  
"Shut up!"  
  
Blair curled both legs in close and shut up. He wasn't giving anyone a free shot at hitting his leg anymore.   
  
Wind chopped the water surface, growing in force when they reached the river and left behind the bay's shelter. Blair had to use one hand against the deck to steady himself. God, it was cold. The sun wasn't likely to be making an appearance today. Rain clouds filled the sky. Blair could see the waves crash against the cliffs of Point Deception, throwing white sea foam high against the rocks. He knew then why the river didn't have much small boat traffic. Rising a bit, he looked through the water speckled windshield.   
  
Waves.  
  
Lots and lots of big waves.  
  
Blair hunkered down next to Jim and held on. He chanced a quick peek. Jim looked bleached out and Blair knew why, his fear of the open sea was returning.  
  
"Jim?" Blair whispered. "You okay?"  
  
Jim nodded, but he was doing a lousy job of looking okay.  
  
"This is far enough!" George shouted to McKnight.  
  
The river didn't even look like a river here. They were between the two rock jetties now, small black lines in the distance being hit with continual waves. The open ocean spanned to the west. The boat was pitching about, tossed in the mighty waves like a plastic toy. Even McKnight was looking green. Jim knew the time to act was now, but he needed an opening.   
  
George dropped the motor's throttle, keeping the boat's bow pointed into the continual procession of waves. He nodded to Jim, speaking to his partner. "Throw the cop in first."  
  
"What about the cuffs?" McKnight asked.  
  
Jim tensed, feeling Blair do the same. This might be his opening.  
  
"Leave 'em. They'll both wash out to sea. The Orca's are hungry." He smiled as he caught Jim's eye, taunting him.   
  
McKnight pointed with the gun. "Get up, both of you!"  
  
Blair's leg didn't seem to be obeying. Jim was in no position to help him either. The two of them struggled as the boat tilted nose up then switched in a seesaw motion that brought up the stern. The effect was like trying to stand on the back of a giant rocking horse. Jim did his best, aware of the grunts of pain from Blair. If the kid was acting, he was doing a damn good job.  
  
"Hurry up!" McKnight yelled.  
  
"We're trying, damn it!" Jim waited until he could use Blair's shoulder as a brace.   
  
Come on…   
  
Then he felt it. Blair was rock solid at his side. Jim used his friend to power up, driving a shoulder straight into McKnight's gut. Both men went down in a tangle of coarse ropes, floats and crab pots. McKnight screamed with outrage and pain as his face bounced off the deck. Jim rolled, curling his long body in an attempt to get his arms over his butt and out front where he could grab the fallen gun. He lost track of George. Jim turned just as a dark shape swung down toward his head.  
  
"JIM!"   
  
Blair's warning came a second before the blow. The hard flooring struck Jim's cheek with bone cracking force. Jim could smell the fish oil; feel the scales and bits of crab shells bite into his face and ear. His vision was too busy cataloging bright flashes, like hundreds of camera's going off all at the same time. He could hear Blair's heartbeat, the drumming of the boat's engines and the water sluicing under the boat.   
  
"Jim! NO!" Blair sounded frantic.  
  
Hands lifted. He felt the gunnel's edge digging into his stomach. Then hands grasped his legs. Jim flipped end over end and dropped with a splash into the cold, salty waters. Jim curled into a ball, instinctively holding his breath. The water was frigid! The back of his head bounced off the hull, hitting it hard. Irrational fear of being trapped, like swimming under a sheet of ice, nearly caused him to suck salt water into his lungs.   
  
Another nearby splash, like the body of a full-sized man getting tossed overboard, jumpstarted his brain into thinking again. Jim jackknifed underwater, reversing his position and kicked off the boat's bottom with his feet, effectively clearing it and gaining distance. The boat's motor had revved up. They were being abandoned.   
  
Jim's eyes were open now, stinging a bit from the salt. He dialed down his touch and adjusted his vision for the green underwater world beneath him. It was breathtaking. Jim could see all the way to the river bottom, the sand landscape, shaped by eons of tides and water flow. He could see fish by the hundreds, sea turtles and seals. He could see Blair.  
  
Shit!  
  
Jim kicked hard, swimming toward the floundering man. He could see the water's choppy surface above, nothing like the calm world only a few feet below. If Jim could grow gills, he'd consider living down here forever, but his lungs were near the end of their limit.   
  
Jim's head broke through the surface and his lungs pulled in life giving oxygen. He could only manage to stay upright for a second or two before a wave hit him and bowled him over. Without his hands, he was going to drown.   
  
No, he wasn't going to die. He and Blair were going to live, even if they had to dog paddle back to land.   
  
Jim twisted, trying to get his feet down, his head up. Curling into a tight ball, he successfully got his cuffed wrists over his butt and feet. Now, with the use of his arms, he righted himself once more. His face broke above the water and sucked in… saltwater. Another wave picked that same second to crest over the top of his head. It was impossible not to cough, it was impossible to breathe. Jim's panic returned twofold. His fear of the ocean haunted him like a banshee, screaming in his head. Nothing was beautiful anymore. The water was deadly and deceiving.  
  
Strong hands found him and Jim's head was out of the water again. He was being held close, comforted with words delivered through teeth chattering with cold. Jim hacked up salt water, clearing his windpipe.   
  
"J-jim, Jim. Oh th-thank God, man." Blair was babbling, his lips brushing Jim's ear. "Thought I l-lost you."  
  
One more cough and Jim could talk again. "You okay?" He could feel Blair's body shaking like a junkie in withdrawal. It occurred to the sentinel that he'd dialed down his ability to feel cold. He tentatively checked the water temperature and slammed his control back down to the lowest setting. No wonder Blair was shivering. At this rate, neither one of them would last more than half an hour.  
  
"Sandburg?"   
  
Blair looked weak, his face was white, teeth chattering, goose bumps rose on his neck and on the arms that circled Jim's, but the kid was riding higher in the water than Jim. And neither of Jim's legs had a bullet hole.  
  
Blair managed a humorless, but proud grin. "Crab floats. I s-stuffed… m-my shirt. Tossed more over. Look around."  
  
Now Jim could see the bulges under the sweatshirt, pushing up behind Blair's head. Jim had thought they were trapped air bubbles. "They didn't notice?"  
  
"I jumped… they w-were looking for you."  
  
"Smart, kid. Good thinking." Jim spotted more bobbing in the waves. With Blair's help, they stuffed them up the back of Jim's shirt, keeping one under each armpit. They'd never get USCG approval, but Jim wasn't going to sink.  
  
Still, they needed to stay warm. Jim raised his cuffed hands over Blair's head. His arms circled Blair and the floats and hugged him close, trapping their body heat. Blair wasn't talking anymore, just returned the hug, seeking Jim's body heat unashamedly. Jim accidentally bumped Blair's injured leg, bringing tears to his friend's eyes. The river was pushing them out to sea. Every third or fourth wave broke over their heads as they clung to each other. The time spent under the wave, holding their breaths, waiting to pop back up again, seemed to stretch a life span. But the floats did the job. Jim knew they never would have made it otherwise. They endured the six foot waves. When the rain started to fall, Blair laughed and laid his head on Jim's shoulder.  
  
"What's so funny?"  
  
Blair's laugh was becoming more of a moan. "Our l-luck."  
  
"Hey, we have great luck."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah, way I figure. They could have shot us first, then dumped us overboard."  
  
Blair snickered, tickling Jim's neck.   
  
"We're going to make it, Chief. Trust me."   
  
"Can't even… s-see the shore." Blair groaned. He was growing weaker. "Going f-further out."  
  
"I'm pushing us north. We'll clear the bar eventually and reach the shore." Jim tried to sound sure of himself. "No, don't kick, Sandburg. I'll be the motor in this team, you just hold on. We'll be okay."   
  
Another wave sunk them.  
  
They bobbed back up. It was impossible to see his watch. Jim had no idea how much time had passed since they'd been tossed overboard. Jim could hear a huge ship crossing the bar, but the waves blocked his view. They were too small for radar to pick up, too low to be spotted by the naked eye. Even if someone was looking for them, they'd be almost impossible to spot. Both of them had worn dark color clothing. For a while, neither man said a word. They concentrated on kicking their legs and staying warm.  
  
"Cold," Blair whispered. The word was so faint, Jim almost didn't catch it.  
  
"I know. Just stay with me, okay? Stay awake." Blair's head was heavy on Jim's shoulder. He accidentally bumped the injured leg, Blair didn't flinch.   
  
Jim pulled Blair closer.  
  
Doubt waited on the fringes of Jim's thoughts like a starving vulture.   
  
Jim refused to stop kicking, to stop believing they'd make it, even though the sea had them now. They had cleared the river, passed over the bar and were caught up in the ebb tide. Blair was motionless in his arms. The crab floats still kept them both from sinking. One good thing about being out in the ocean, the waves were not as big. The sky to the west was dark with the promise of more storm. To the east, Jim could see the distant shoreline and the two lighthouses, Cape Deception and North Head. He could even see his brightly painted blue steps leading to their house.   
  
So close, probably a little more than a mile away.  
  
Jim could feel his own strength waning. Not a good thing. The effects of hypothermia accelerated if the victim was exhausted.  
  
God, the situation was so damn frustrating.   
  
Jim could hear the fishing boats further out to sea, hear the men and women talking about the catch of the day, the weather, who was going broke and which company was making payroll. It was as if he and Blair were going to bleed to death in a crowded shopping mall. They were invisible. The choppy water hid them.  
  
Even with his sense of touch down, the cold penetrated his bones, stiffened his joints. Blair's face might as well be sculpted from a block of ice the way it chilled Jim's neck. Blair's slow heartbeat haunted Jim. The thought of that heart going still scared him senseless. He knew if Blair died, so would Jim's will to survive. Jim kept his friend's torso crushed close to his own, sharing all the heat he could. The torso was the 'box' with all the vital organs. Jim's first concern was keeping the box warm.  
  
Jim found it difficult to know if they were actually getting closer to the shoreline or being towed further out. Maybe all his work just kept them in one place. Could he keep this up until the tide reversed? How long? Jim had no idea. He hadn't been paying attention. He closed his eyes and concentrated. It was still early and he'd noticed high tides around the middle of the afternoon. So… what then. Shit, it was hard to think.  
  
Blair stirred restlessly.  
  
"Hey," Jim croaked, then cleared this throat. "Blair? You awake?"  
  
"Umm."  
  
"Come on, kid. I'm getting bored. Talk to me." Jim could feel eyelashes stroke his neck. Blair was waking. "Up and at 'em."  
  
"'gaway." Blair rolled his head on Jim's shoulder. "… tired."  
  
"Damn it, Chief. Do what I tell you for once." Jim purposefully sounded harsh, reproving.  
  
It worked. Some basic instinct within Blair struggled to the surface. "Where… are we?"   
  
"Pacific ocean."  
  
Blair lifted his head and looked around. Jim got a look at Blair's pale face.   
  
"Jim," Blair muttered. "You'd make it. Alone."  
  
"Don't think so, Flipper."  
  
Blair snorted, his head falling back to Jim's shoulder. "Figured you'd… say that. Why so cold? Is May."  
  
"The Pacific stay's the same, basically all year 'round."  
  
"That… sucks, man. Now I know…" He shivered and caught his lower lip between his teeth. "… how that glass float feels."  
  
"You telling me 'cold and wet' is your world?" Jim teased.  
  
Blair lowered he head back on Jim's shoulder and didn't answer.  
  
"Blair?" He jiggled his arms. "Sandburg?"  
  
Nope, his friend was unconscious again. Jim released a disappointed sigh.   
  
"Holy shit! I don't believe it."  
  
Jim lifted his eyes to the horizon and looked around. He knew that voice; young and excited and far away. But where? He raked his sentinel vision over the coastline.  
  
There. Next to North Head lighthouse, Jim saw a figure. He zoomed in and saw the startled face of Clifford looking back at him.   
  
No way.  
  
"Clifford?"  
  
"Detective Ellison?" The answer was faint, but there.  
  
Jim was so shocked he stopped kicking for a second. "You…" Jim was stunned into perplexity, the cold not helping. Was he hallucinating? "You can see us?"  
  
Clifford's head nodded. His mouth gaped open in surprise. "What are you guys doing?"  
  
"Get help, Clifford. Call the coast guard, or the police. Get us a boat." Jim was babbling. If this was a hallucination, it was a nice one. He prayed Clifford was real. He'd deal with the how's and why's later.   
  
To Jim's further amazement, Clifford started talking into his own hand. "Dad! Dad, this is Cliff. Come in, Dad."  
  
A cruel stabbing feeling of disappointment cut through Jim's heart. He had to be seeing things. Why his hallucination summoned up a kid and not Simon or someone else was beyond reason. Jim watched as the image of the boy talked into his hand, describing Jim and Blair's predicament and their current location. A few times, Jim even imagined a man's voice answering. As Jim watched, another fact became apparent: Clifford was getting smaller.  
  
The tide was still taking them out to sea.   
  
Clifford continued to speak into his hand. Jim tuned the words out. The kid wasn't going for help, another fact that convinced Jim no one was really standing next to the lighthouse. Blair slipped a little in his grasp. Jim's arms were becoming too weak to hold him. Jim grasped his left wrist with his right hand and forced himself to tighten his arms. Muscles shook with protest, but Blair remained pressed close.   
  
More signs of Jim's impending failure reached his ears. He was imagining the deep drumming sound of a diesel motor now. Maybe if this kept up, he'd start seeing the entire Major Crimes gang walking toward them across the waves. Jim would have smiled if his face muscles had any energy left. Besides, he couldn't spare it. He needed all his strength to hold Blair and kick.  
  
"There they are!"  
  
Jim's head swiveled in surprise.  
  
A boat.  
  
A bigger than life fishing boat was bearing down on their location. Two men wearing orange bibbed-front rain paints and wool shirts stood in the open bow, leaning over the side railing. The taller man was pointing directly at them, shouting directions to some unseen person piloting the boat. Seconds later they were along side.  
  
"Is he alive?" The taller man shouted over the motor's noise, as he threw a horseshoe shaped yellow life ring into the water  
  
"Yeah!" Jim shouted, unable to snag the life preserver because of the cuffs. "He's unconscious."   
  
Non-boaters have no idea how hard it is to retrieve people from the water during a storm. Jim thanked their lucky stars the crew of this boat seemed experienced. It took a bit of maneuvering. The shorter man dropped a chain ladder over the side and climbed down until he was waist deep in the water. He supported Blair with one hand long enough for Jim to get his cuffed arms free. Both men looked at Jim's wrists with surprise, but didn't comment. It was time to rescue, not ask questions.   
  
Jim managed to keep a grip on the ladder. His buoyancy was gone now and his legs had quit on him. The waves made the boat lurch and holding on was not easy when your fingers were numb from the cold. Still, Jim clung as he watched Blair taken up. After Blair was lifted out and safely over the railing, eager hands reached down and helped Jim. Before he knew it, he was back on solid flooring again. The boat was bigger than the one that had dumped them. Another man appeared. Blair was carried and Jim walked with help into an enclosed cabin. Narrow steps took them down below to a tiny room with narrow benches.  
  
Ropes and tools were swept off one padded bench and Blair was gently laid down. The oldest of the three men disappeared into a passageway and returned holding a pair of large bolt cutters. The handcuff's attaching link was cut. Jim would have to wear the bracelets for a while. The man then headed back up the stairs. "I'll get us to Astoria as fast as I can. Bad storm's just hit. The bar's rough, hold on."  
  
Jim dropped onto an empty spot on the opposite bench. Liquefied lead coursed through his body. He could barely hold up his arms. Exhaustion hit hard and his chin bumped against his chest as the boat turned sharply and the engine revved up.   
  
"How long?" the taller man asked. Both men were gently pulling Blair's wet clothes off. Three crab floats fell to the floor.   
  
Jim shook his head. "Not sure, what time is it?" His words were slurred.   
  
The shorter man looked at his arm. "Ten-twelve."  
  
Mentally calculating the time seemed too great a task. Finally Jim managed a guess. "Two hours, maybe. Around that. How did you find us?" He watched them work. Both men were dark-skinned, like Clifford and his grandmother. In fact, Jim could see some of Clifford in the taller man.   
  
Almost Clifford answered, "My son spotted you. We have Family-Talk radios. He likes to watch our return. We talk. He's got good eyes." The man looked up. "So do you, apparently."   
  
Jim nodded, looking around the room. The lower cabin was warmer than expected. In a far corner, a space heater glowed red-hot, radiating blessed warmth. The boat smelled of dead fish, sweat and rancid grease.   
  
To Jim, it was heaven.  
  
Clifford's dad looked grim. He was working on Blair's shirts while his partner removed the shoes. He nodded to a plastic tub with a lid under a counter. "Get in there, you'll find blankets. Get out of those clothes and wrap up."  
  
Jim moved like a man experiencing the heavy gravity of a distant planet. "Watch his leg, okay? He's injured."  
  
"I'm Jack." Jack nodded to the man next to him as he started unbuckling Blair's belt. "This is Frank Hao. Clifford says you're a cop."   
  
Jim managed to slip off the bench and crawl to the tub. The lid was tight. He could feel the boat plowing into the waves now. Keeping his balance was going to be tough. "Detective Ellison. That's Blair Sandburg, my partner." His speech was slow; talking seemed to be another physical task beyond his ability at that moment. "You're not going to like this. Your brother-in-law dumped us out here. He broke into our house. Stole papers. He's working with Steven McKnight."  
  
"George? He did this?" Jack sounded angry. "Shit, when is that deadbeat going to get a brain."   
  
"We need to contact the police," Jim said, finding blankets and first aid supplies. He pulled out two thick, green blankets and pushed them along the floor to Jack.  
  
"We will. There's a radio on deck," Jack said. "First, let's get you both warmed up."  
  
They were efficient and knew what they were doing. Blair was stripped out of his clothes and swathed in blankets, then lashed to the bench with seatbelts. He never woke. They activated chemical heat packs and slipped them between the blankets, but not against Blair's skin. Jim didn't need to tell them where to put the heat, they knew; under the arms, the neck and groin area, anywhere the blood flowed near the skin surface, to be warmed and taken throughout the body. They found a clean, dry towel and gently wrapped up his long wet hair.  
  
Jack was Jim's size and loaned him a pair of thermal underwear, jeans, thick socks and a heavy wool sweater. At first, Jim's body refused to believe it was warm and dry again. He shivered until he felt like he would shake apart. The boat was really fighting the waves now. Jim had to hold onto built in straps, secured for just that purpose.  
  
"We're at the bar's entrance," Jack told them. "You two stay put. We're going up to help."  
  
"The radio," Jim said as they started to leave.  
  
"We'll try," Jack said. "Hold on and watch your partner."  
  
Jim ignored the bench. He sank down to sit on the floor by Blair's side, near the sleeping man's head, and held on.  
  
The water was rough. Jim held on but still collected a mass of bruises. There were no windows, no way to chart their progress. Jim's stomach began to churn. He longed for fresh air, but wasn't going to chance leaving Blair by himself.   
  
Just then Blair groaned.  
  
"Sandburg?"  
  
Each time the boat rolled or dropped over a wave, Blair was caught by the straps. Groans corresponded with each jarring movement. Blair's face scrunched. His lips pressed together. With a sharp gasp, he opened his eyes and swept the room with an unfocused gaze. He found Jim's face and locked on.  
  
"Hey," Jim said.  
  
The boat lurched, bringing a cry of pain this time. Jim couldn't help but circle Blair's chest with an arm and hold on.  
  
"Jim…" Blair groaned. "Jim, get me out."  
  
"Not safe right now, Chief."  
  
The waves got worse, growing higher until Jim thought the old boat was doomed to break apart under the pounding force. A wave caused a combination drop and roll that broke Jim's pathetically weak hold and sent him rolling backwards. He took a glancing blow to the head off a counter support leg.  
  
"Jim!"  
  
Moving like an advancing foot soldier, Jim belly crawled back to Blair's side. He rose up enough to sit, returning to Blair's limited range of vision again. "Sorry, I don't have a first class ticket like you."  
  
But Blair wasn't seeing the humor. He writhed under the blankets. "Lemme go."  
  
"Listen, we're crossing the bar. You're already hurt. You have to stay put. It's the best way." Jim draped an arm over the bundled man again, risking another trip down the length of the room. Even thought Blair was awake and semi lucid, he wasn't calming down. Jim needed a distraction. "Help me, Sandburg. I'm feeling sick here. I think my senses are working against me."  
  
It was as if someone had found a 'Blair remote' and flicked the switch. Blair stopped squirming. He peered up at Jim, his dull eyes worried. "What?"  
  
Jim nodded to the room at large. "It's getting to me. Making my stomach... squeamish. You think it's the smell?"  
  
"Ah, no… wait." Blair swallowed, eyes closing. He didn't groan when the boat did another bucking bronco imitation.   
  
Jim tightened his hold and waited.  
  
"Need a horizon… window?" Blair asked.  
  
"No."  
  
"'Kay, try this." Blair licked his chapped, fevered lips, looking unsure. "Close your eyes. Picture a round gauge with a… horizontal line inside. See it?"  
  
Shit, Jim could see it. How did Blair know all this? "Yeah, now what?"  
  
"Now, each time the boat… ah, moves, your line stays true. It's like what a pilot sees… on an airplane."  
  
The boat moved. Jim's mind watched the false horizon shift and…   
  
And he didn't feel that sinking despair in his gut anymore. His stomach calmed. Jim opened his eyes and waited for more waves. It didn't change. He looked down at Blair in unadulterated wonder.   
  
"It works."  
  
"Good." Blair's smile was small but genuine. "Untie me?"  
  
Jim took a second to brush a few wet hair strands back from Blair's eyes. The towel had worked loose. "Chief, you need to stay, okay? I'm sorry. I am. But you'll only get hurt worse if you start falling over."  
  
Blair groaned. He looked miserable and ready to cry. His forehead was warm again, too warm. The fever was back, yet Blair was shivering. Jim felt like a heel. He stroked Blair's forehead, hoping to give him something to focus on, and watched Blair's chest rise and fall. He was breathing too fast, but he stopped fighting the straps. It dawned on Jim the ride was starting to gentle down. Were they through?  
  
"Be right back." Jim rose, standing on wobbly legs.  
  
"Where ya going?"  
  
"Up to talk to the captain. Don't worry, I'm listening." Jim patted Blair's blanketed chest. He managed the stairs without falling. The water was definitely calmer now. Jim's mood improved. They'd get Blair to a hospital and get Nettle and her buddies to round up those two assholes that left them for dead.   
  
The old man stood at the wheel, his face grim. Clifford's father and his buddy were standing nearby. Jim got a look out one of the large windows, expecting to see the looming shape of the Astoria Bridge. It wasn't there. The sky was dark gray, one enormous cloud filling the entire horizon.   
  
No jetty in sight.   
  
No shoreline.  
  
Just water, rain and an ominous sky  
  
Shit.  
  
"We went back out?" Jim asked incredulously.  
  
Jack nodded. "The bar's too rough. It's closed. We'll ride out the storm."  
  
Jim dragged a hand down his face. This wasn't going to work. "Blair needs a hospital."  
  
"We've called the Coasties. They've dispatched their Jayhawk," the boat's captain said. "They'll take you both from the boat and run you in."  
  
Jim groaned. Yeah, it was the right call to make. He would have done the same. But, shit-o-damn, he was going to have to break the news to Blair. The Jayhawk was a medium range recovery helicopter. About sixty-plus feet long with two engines, it couldn't land in the water. They'd have to be lifted by cable. He turned back toward the stairs. He needed to have a talk with his partner.  
  
Blair met him with an impatient look. "It's calmer now, Jim. Get these damn straps off me."  
  
Jim started to unbuckle the belts. "We need to talk."  
  
"What's wrong?" Blair's pissy attitude faded as he watched Jim work on the straps.   
  
"We didn't make it across the bar. We're back out on the Pacific." Jim opened the last buckle. The heat packets fell from around his neck and Jim tucked them into the blanket, over Blair's stomach.  
  
Blair groaned as his left arm pulled out of the blankets. The bandages on his hands were gone, soaked off by the sea, revealing white and wrinkled skin. Jim checked Blair's skin temperature. He was warmer, but still not back to normal. The body's outside temperature didn't always correspond with the core temperature.   
  
"I want to sit up," Blair muttered.  
  
"You shouldn't."  
  
Blair's glower was the stuff drill sergeants perfected while standing for hours in front of a mirror.   
  
"Fine, but you're keeping the blankets on." Jim lifted Blair's shoulders and helped him turn on the bench. The towel fell off. Long wet strands of hair fell to the blanket around his shoulders. "Did you hear what I said?"  
  
"Yeah, about the bar? How long do we wait?"  
  
Jim pulled two straps out and clipped them around Blair's hips. "We're not waiting. The Coast Guard's coming to get us." A dark blue knitted watch cap lay discarded on a coil of rope. Jim fitted it over Blair's wet head.  
  
Blair's eyes narrowed, searching Jim's face. "They're sending a boat?" Then seeing the truth in Jim's expression, Blair shook his head. He gathered a fistful of Jim's sweater sleeve, then surprised Jim with a fierce yank. "No! No way, man. No helicopters!"   
  
Jim tried to keep the blanket high on Blair's shoulders. This was not a rational Blair; this was a fevered, exhausted Blair who was not playing with a full deck. He sat next to his friend, his tone as gentle as he knew how to sound. "Listen to me," Jim demanded, overriding Blair's curses. "It's the fastest way. I'm coming along too, okay?"  
  
"I'm not going. Forget it."  
  
"Blair –"  
  
"Jim! I can't. Not again. I told you."  
  
"We're riding inside this time." Jim squeezed Blair's shoulder. "Not a military chopper. Coast Guard. We ride inside, just like to the oil rig, remember? You didn't mind that trip." Jim smiled reassuringly. "Piece of cake."  
  
Blair stilled. "Inside? You sure?"  
  
"Yep."  
  
Some of the fight seemed to ooze from Blair's body. His forehead smoothed. But it was obvious to Jim, Blair was not happy. Jim could hear the distant whoop-whoop of the chopper's blades. They were out of time.   
  
Blair pressed trembling fingers against his own closed eyes and slumped against Jim's shoulder. "Sorry, man. Sorry." His body shuddered. "Don't know w-why I'm so freaked."  
  
"It's fine," Jim said. He circled an arm around the blanketed shoulders, took Blair's pale arm and tucked it back inside the folds of material. "You'll be okay once we get to the hospital." Blair didn't comment, but scowled. Jim knew why. "I don't think we're looking at a long stay, Sandburg. You're alert and warming up. We managed to dodge the hypothermia bullet today. We'll get checked out and released."  
  
Blair lifted his head. "You think?"  
  
"Yeah. I do."  
  
A hint of a smile appeared. "Cool."  
  
Wearing a borrowed rain coat smelling of fish scales, Jim watched the Jayhawk approach, flying low under the clouds. He zoomed in on the pilot, recognizing the same freckled faced kid from the other day. The red and white helicopter looked like a fat dragonfly. A large side door opened on sliders and a man in an orange 'Mustang' foul weather suit sat on the floor of the copter, his legs dangling out into space. He double checked his own harness and let his team mate hook him to the thick cable attached to a pulley on a frame that rolled out the doorway.  
  
The Coast Guard crew communicated to the fishing boat by marine radio. They were instructed not to grab the man lowered by cable. After a few wide swings, he landed on the boat's deck and unhooked. Blair was up in the pilot house now, sitting in a sturdy padded bench by a wall heater, still swathed in blankets and wearing the cap. After greeting Jim and squatting down in front of Blair to evaluate him, the helicopter crew member ordered a Stokes basket lowered.  
  
Blair visibly stiffened as it came within view through the windows.  
  
"We're inside this time," Jim reminded him.  
  
In deference to the weather, the Stokes was brought into the pilot house, crowding the occupants and barely fitting in the middle aisle. A special weatherproof cocoon rested within. The rescuer unzipped it, revealing an insulated metallic lining, like something used by NASA for space travel. Blair refused to be lifted, but let Jim help him stand – still wrapped in blankets – and lowered himself down into the basket. He lay silently shivering as he was bundled into the thick weather resistant wrappings. Then the basket was lifted and carried out onto the open deck. They wouldn't let Jim help carry, so he walked by Blair's side. If Blair had opened his eyes, he might have found Jim's presence comforting.  
  
Blair waited until the cable was being hooked to the straps before letting the panic show in his face. "Jim!"  
  
"I'm here." Jim moved in, leaning over Blair. The noise from the Jayhawk's spinning blades was deafening. He spoke up so Blair could hear him.  
  
"Shitshitshit… I hate this." Eyes wide with fear, Blair's face had paled even more. Rain splashed on his cheeks.   
  
"You'll be inside the 'copter before you know it. Then they'll lift me up," Jim said.  
  
Blair licked his lips. "Hey," he rasped, suddenly looking like the old Blair Jim knew. "Did I thank you for keeping me from drowning?"  
  
Jim chuckled. "If you weren't so cold, you'd realize I should be thanking you. You saved my life."  
  
"You saved me."  
  
"No, you did."  
  
"You did."  
  
"You finished?" Jim saw the connecting straps were in place. He gave Blair's shoulder a final pat. "See you topside, partner."  
  
Young Bay Memorial Hospital in Astoria was surprisingly large. They efficiently hustled Blair into a trauma room and gave every pretense of knowing what they were doing. They listened to Jim's recap of Blair's gunshot wound and the complications he was having before they'd been kidnapped. To Jim's irritation, however, he also ended up in a trauma room. Somehow, Blair was able to blab to the staff the number of times Jim's head took a beating in the last twenty-four hours.   
  
It was during another wait for test results that Deputy Nettle appeared by Jim's bed, looking unhappy. He came clean with the entire story of the mysterious journal pages.   
  
"Okay, I can understand you not telling me yesterday," she said. "You didn't remember, but what about Sandburg? He should have mentioned it." She looked ready to storm into Blair's adjacent room right that minute.   
  
"Lighten up, Nettle, please. Blair's not at fault. He's been working with me a while now. He's used to having me deal with disclosure of information. He was just being cautious." Jim reached for the water glass and took a pull through the bent straw. For some reason, his body craved water. Jim would think he'd seen enough to last a lifetime.   
  
She folded her arms and did a perfect imitation of Simon Banks. "Okay, this time."  
  
"So how'd you get here so fast?" During the chopper ride in, Jim had managed to get the Coast Guard to radio the names of their kidnappers to the county sheriff's office. He hadn't expected to see a deputy for another hour.  
  
She reached behind her back and produced a narrow spiral notebook, flipping pages. "We got a call from a civilian that overheard Clifford and his dad. Those little radio's are handy, a lot of the cops like to carry one and monitor what's go on." She grinned. "Anyway, I recognized your name and contacted the Coast Guard. By then, they'd already sent a chopper out to get you. I got an APB out for McKnight. We've already arrested George. He was trying to borrow some money from his mother."  
  
"Annabel Ramsey."  
  
"Right. Clifford ran home, told Annabel about spotting you guys – you realize the odds of that happening, right? And George overheard. She got suspicious when he started throwing his stuff in his truck and asked for money."  
  
"Smart woman."  
  
"Well, George just got out of prison last year for armed robbery. He's not the prized apple on that family tree."  
  
"So, she called the cops?"  
  
"Nah, we were already on our way, I guess. Don't have all the details, but she delayed him."  
  
"So all we need now is McKnight."  
  
"Right." She looked around the small treatment room. "You guys staying?"  
  
"God, I hope not." Jim rubbed his head. "Can you give us a ride back if they release us? My truck is still parked on the road."  
  
"Sure." She closed her book and stuffed into her belt at the small of her back. "It's about time for my lunch. I'll grab a bite and come back. I feel like a wonder burger."  
  
The groan escaped before Jim could stop it.  
  
Nettle laughed. "Let me guess, a double with the works?"  
  
"Ohgodyeah!"  
  
Being warm again was nice. Even having to repeatedly endure the male nurse, an old guy with the yellow teeth and a gray ponytail carrying the rectal thermometer, wasn't too awful. Well, maybe the very next thing before 'awful'. Blair just wanted the soreness gone. His right leg hurt. His entire body ached like he'd just finished the aerobic workout from hell. It hurt to breathe.   
  
The helicopter ride was a fuzzy memory. That was okay, too. Blair's face grew warm just thinking about how he'd freaked out. Poor Jim. All the guy was trying to do was get him to a hospital. He wouldn't blame Jim if he told Simon to terminate the unofficial ride-a-long, to stop pretending Blair belonged at Jim's side.   
  
"Looking pretty glum for someone that didn't end up as Orca food."  
  
Blair opened his eyes to see Jim standing next to the examine table, boldly reading his chart. "That's supposed to be private information."  
  
"Uh huh." Jim lifted the top sheet and kept reading. "Well, your core temps back to normal. How you feeling?"  
  
"Shitty." Blair bit his tongue. What was he doing? Damn! He'd just been thinking about how Jim deserved a better partner and here he was, dumping on him again.   
  
But Jim looked unaffected. "Shitty and hungry?"  
  
Now, that's a thought. Blair noticed the way his stomach rumbled, the way the rumble echoed like it was in a large empty cavern. "Starving."  
  
Jim didn't look up from his reading. He nodded his head to a white paper sack on the rolling table within Blair's reach. "Natural chicken taco with extra salsa and those little potato thingies shaped like marshmallows."  
  
Blair already had the bag in his lap by the time Jim finished describing the menu. The smell wafting from the sack as he unfolded the top was intoxicating. He reached inside. Oh, God. It was still warm. "Thanks, man." Blair shredded the paper in his haste to get his first mouthful. "Ohhhh, dis' 'm good."  
  
"Your doctor says you get to leave. I'm already checked out." Jim returned the chart to the pocket on the foot board. "Nettle's going to drive us back to the beach house. We owe her thirteen bucks."  
  
Blair didn't comment. He had to force himself to slow down. The last thing he needed was to choke in a hospital ER room. They'd probably admit him for being stupid. He studied Jim while the older man continued to talk. Jim looked better. His color was good. It was amazing how the guy could bounce back like a tennis ball. He had even managed to score some dry clothes. Probably from the guys on the boat. Blair figured he'd be leaving here wrapped in the same blankets he'd arrived in. Whoa, what was Jim saying?  
  
"They caught them?" Blair asked.  
  
Jim paused, shooting Blair a familiar 'I knew you were in your happy-place and not paying attention' look. "They caught one of them, George Ramsey. McKnight is still at large."  
  
"Oh." Blair popped a tater tot into his mouth and chewed. He didn't slap Jim's hand away when the guy reached over to help himself. "So, how'd we get spotted anyway?"  
  
Jim got a funny look. "Funny thing, that…" He finished chewing and swallowed. "Clifford spotted us from the North Head Light house."  
  
Blair frowned. The way he remembered it, they had been a long, long way off from shore. "What, he had some high powered binoculars?"  
  
Jim shook his head. He lowered his voice to a whisper and glanced back at the doorway. "No binoculars and get this, Chief, he heard me talking to him, too."  
  
Blair dropped his taco wrap. "What?"  
  
"His dad was one of the guys that pulled us out. Clifford likes to hike up to the cliffs and watch for their boat to come into the bar. I guess he was up there when he spotted us floating. He saved our lives, communicated by walkie-talkie to his dad and led them to us."  
  
"Wow." What if… "Jim, I got to talk to him."  
  
"I know. After my childhood, I'm not letting Clifford go through the same thing."  
  
Blair was so caught up in his wonder of a possible child sentinel; he didn't put together Jim's last comment. When it finally registered, the doctor came into the room and Jim held up his hand; a classic Ellison-sign for 'we'll talk later'.   
  
Damn. Blair really wanted an explanation. Jim never talked about his childhood.   
  
The doctor signed the release. Before Blair could accept the slip of paper that promised to be the ticket to more powerful antibiotics, Jim took it. Nettle appeared right afterwards, smiling at Blair and presenting him with a dry pair of unisex sweatpants and sweatshirt, then told Jim she'd be waiting in the car. Blair moved like an old man as he slipped them on with Jim's help. He was grateful for the wheelchair Yellow Teeth pushed into the room, his long gray ponytail swinging as he nodded to Jim.  
  
Outside the storm still raged. Jim rushed him through the raindrops and bundled him into the back seat again. Apparently the fishing boat's blankets were going back to the beach house as well. Nettle had the SUV's heater on the blast setting. They drove through downtown Astoria and onto the ramp leading up to the amazing bridge that spanned the Columbia River. The bridge rose high on the Oregon side of the river, unwinding from the city like a snake and arching over the main channel at a dizzy height to allow even the largest of ships to pass beneath.   
  
Blair couldn't help but stare at the water to the east while Jim and Nettle talked, their voices too soft for Blair to hear. The view was grim. The Columbia Bar still churned caught in the storm's hold. Waves rose up in confusion, smashing against each other as if trying to escape some unseen torment.   
  
God, had they really been out there? What time was it? Nearly dinner? Less than twelve hours ago he and Jim had been in those waves. It boggled the mind.   
  
After the main channel was behind them, the bridge angled downward until it was only fifteen feet above the river. Then they were off the bridge, back in the state of Washington and speeding toward Ilwaco. Blair tried to keep his eyes open, but the heat felt so good. He closed his eyelids for just a second, listening to the police radio chatter.  
  
Jim was shaking him. The side door was open. Cold air stole his warm, dry world away.  
  
"We're here. Let's get inside." Jim was getting pelted by the raindrops.  
  
Wiping the last of his confusion from his face, Blair shifted stiffly. It was no use. His right leg didn't want to move. Jim had to reach down and gently lift it over the short lip to the doorway.  
  
"Sorry."  
  
"Not a problem, Chief."   
  
Jim let Blair use his forearm to lever himself out of the vehicle. Jim carried a small white bag with the words 'Ilwaco Pharmacy' printed on the side. Apparently Blair had slept while Jim had gone and had the prescription filled. He made a mental note to pay the older man back. Nettle appeared, wearing her department raincoat and holding an enormous black umbrella over their heads. She kept it in place as Jim supported Blair into the beach house.  
  
"Can't believe were back here, man," Blair whispered.  
  
"I know, been a hell of a day."   
  
Somehow, Jim had managed to keep his keys with him. Blair's set was still inside. All he'd taken that morning had been his wallet, which Jim had produced back at the hospital. The leather smelled like seaweed and all the contents were soaked, but nothing had been missing. Once inside, there was no surprise on Blair's part when Jim guided him into the bedroom.   
  
The bed looked inviting. Blair wasn't going to complain. Nettle hadn't followed this far. Jim took the blanket from his shoulder and pulled back the bedding. Blair felt like climbing between the sheets and not coming out for a week, maybe a month.   
  
"Can we give Nettle's sweats back later?" Blair mumbled as he sat down on the bed's edge. He ran a tender hand through his hair, happy to find it dry. He slipped off the hospital slippers and rolled onto the mattress, feeling Jim's hands helping his right leg up. Blair dropped his face into the pillow.   
  
"Not a problem," Jim answered from seemingly far away.  
  
Covers were pulled up to his neck. Blair's grasp on reality was slipping. He didn't resist as the exhaustion took him down into nothingness. The extra weight of a blanket was the last thing he felt. He really should thank Jim for that, but the part of his brain that controlled speech had already hung out a 'do not disturb' sign. Blair sighed and gave into the darkness.  
  
The phone rang before Jim could get in the shower. All Jim wanted was to feel hot, clean water sluice over his body and then have a long nap. Blair was already snoring. Nettle had left with the keys to the rental truck and a promise to get it delivered. Maybe he'd ignore the phone.  
  
Nah, years of training wouldn't let him.  
  
"Ellison."  
  
"Jim? What the hell is going on down there? Why am I getting calls from your local county police?"  
  
"Hi, Simon."  
  
"Don't 'Hi, Simon' me. Answer the damn question. Are you two okay?"  
  
Jim dropped to sit on the bed's edge. He'd never gotten around to making it back into a couch that morning. "We're fine. We just got back from Astoria."  
  
"How does that involve the sheriff's office?"  
  
This was going to be an interesting phone call. Jim didn't know where to start. He flopped backwards on top of the covers and toed off his shoes. They were still damp from the river. "It's complicated, sir. But everything is okay now."  
  
"You're both okay?" Simon's tone switched from angry to weary.   
  
"Yeah, we're good. But I'm exhausted. Can I fill you in after I've slept for twenty-four straight?"   
  
"I should come down."  
  
"No," Jim said. "Darryl needs you to be with him. Blair and I are fine. Things are fine."  
  
"… Okay, Jim." Simon sighed. "Okay. Call me when you catch up on your sleep. I want a full report, mister."  
  
"Thanks, I'll do that. I promise."  
  
After hanging up, he headed for the shower. The warm water delivered everything that Jim's prayers had hoped for and more. He stayed under the spray until the hot water started to change to a cooler temperature. Reluctantly, he got out, dressed in clean boxers and T-shirt. He poked his head into Blair's room. The sleeping man hadn't moved an inch. Filling a glass with cold water at the kitchen sink, Jim drank half down in a few quick gulps as he walked into the living room.   
  
Sheets still covered the windows. He'd leave them for now; they helped to darken the room.   
  
Jim picked up a small travel alarm clock and set it to the proper time that Blair was due for another pill. He drained the water glass and fell onto the sofa-bed. The rain on the roof lulled him to sleep.   
  
Blair's dream was so nice. He didn't want to leave. He'd just discovered a brand new tribe of orange skinned people that lived in a vacant lot down the block from the loft, the one between the dry cleaners and the shoe repair. He was making real steps in understanding their language when the vacant lot was struck with a sudden earthquake. The orange folks ran back under the pile of discarded pizza boxes and beer bottles.  
  
"Come on, Sandburg. Sooner you take the pills, the sooner you can go back to sleep."  
  
Blair rolled onto his side, his leg making him gasp. Damn, that hurt. Jim had the pills between his lips and on his tongue. He felt the rim of the glass next. Blair drank without opening his eyes, not even aware of how he'd become vertical. He still clutched his extra pillow in both arms.   
  
The water was cool and sweet tasting. Jim seemed to understand the appreciative murmur and let him have all he wanted. Then he felt himself being lowered down. Blankets were being rearranged and he could feel Jim messing with his bandage. He drifted back off to sleep before Jim finished.  
  
His next dream wasn't so nice. He was on the sofa, the small one from the loft. Only somehow he and the sofa had been washed out to sea. No mater how hard he tried, the cushions kept getting wet. Jim was going to kill him when he found out. The sofa was sinking now, one end completely submerged by a wave.   
  
The earthquake was back. Blair didn't even know a person could feel an earthquake at sea.  
  
"Easy, Popeye. You're safe. Calm down."  
  
Blair snorted, rolling a bit more and scrunching the pillow to his chest. He didn't bother to reply, but was glad Jim had woken him up, that dream hadn't been anywhere near as fun as the orange skinned people.  
  
He didn't dream after that, just slept hard until his body's natural alarm clock caused him to return to consciousness. He had pressing matters in his lower abdomen that needed a bathroom. Jim was just entering the room as Blair's eyes focused. Morning light streamed into the room. Jim had removed his sheet-curtains.   
  
"Morning." Jim sounded perky. He was dressed in clean jeans and a polo shirt.  
  
"Mor'nmmm." The blankets were fighting for their right to stay wrapped around his body. Jim had to make with the cavalry and free his legs. Movement, any type of movement at all, just plain hurt. It was as if his body was on strike for unfair treatment. Blair felt a twinge of irritation. It wasn't as if he asked to be shivering for hours in the ocean. Crutches were produced and Blair started clumping toward the bathroom.  
  
"I've got brunch set out for you," Jim said as he followed.  
  
Blair shut the bathroom door.  
  
When he entered the kitchen, face and hands washed and feeling more human, he offered a sheepish grin. "Hey, man." He spotted the bowl of fruit on the table, fresh donuts and croissants with honey and butter. Blair's eyes widened. "Wow."  
  
"Yeah." Jim was fixing scrambled eggs. "Clifford's mom dropped some goodies off on her way to the clinic. She asked how we were doing. Her husband's boat managed to get over the bar. "  
  
Reaching for a banana, Blair remembered George was her brother. "Okay, that must have been awkward. She knows about her brother?"  
  
"Yep." Jim had two plates out and divided the eggs between them. He carried them over to the kitchen table and set them down. He pulled out two chairs. "Sit. Eat."  
  
God, Blair was hungry. It felt like he'd been sleeping for days. Eagerly joining Jim at the table, he dove into the eggs, switching from banana bites to the fork until the fruit was finished. A horse pill was laid by his plate. Jim poured a glass of orange juice from a pitcher on the table.  
  
"Wazzit?"  
  
"Another antibiotic."   
  
The juice was tangy, orange with… mango? He downed the pill without comment.   
  
Jim started talking again. "She seemed fine about the business with George. I could tell she felt a little guilty, but she wasn't surprised to find out he was up to trouble again. Seems George knew McKnight from when he'd gone to Portland University. He only made two years before he came back home. He didn't study and got lousy grades."  
  
"Too bad," Blair said with a mouthful of buttery croissant.   
  
"Yeah, he did odd jobs that didn't amount to much for a while. Guess he doesn't like hard work. Then he committed armed robbery and did some prison time."  
  
"Can't see Annabel having a son like that."   
  
"Kids make their own decisions, Chief."  
  
"True." Blair worked on eating for a few minutes, then had another thought. "Did McKnight get picked up yet?"  
  
Jim shook his head. "Haven't heard. Nettle said she'd call, so I'd say not yet."  
  
Food fueled his thoughts. Blair remembered more of yesterday's adventure. "What about Clifford? Did his mom say anything about his senses?"  
  
"Actually, yeah. They're all coming over later today. We're having a salmon bake on the beach. Annabel has some questions for us."  
  
Blair's fork froze halfway to his mouth.   
  
"Cool!"  
  
After brunch Jim cleaned. Blair sprawled on the sofa and enjoyed the view through the windows. All the sheets were down now. Yesterday's storm was just a memory. The weather outside was fantastic, summer had arrived early. Blair relaxed, reading for a few hours. He even dozed, which didn't make any sense. He'd already slept more in the last twenty-four hours than in a whole week of finals.  
  
When the time for the salmon bake drew near, interesting smells permeated from the kitchen. Jim had come into the room once or twice to check on him, but seemed to have a major project going on in the other room. He was closed mouth and evasive to all Blair's questions about what he was cooking. Any other time and Blair would go check. But the sofa was too comfortable. Jim made sure he had glasses of juice. The view was spectacular. Why move?   
  
"They're here," Jim said from the kitchen.   
  
Moments later Annabel entered the room with her daughter. The older woman immediately began to fuss. Did Blair have enough blankets? Would he like some water?   
  
"I'm fine, honest." Blair used an ottoman for his leg and patted the couch cushion next to him. "Please, sit down. I'm glad we're getting together." Through the windows they could see Jim and some guy, followed by Clifford, carrying stuff around the house. The man with Jim looked familiar, he must be Clifford's father. They descended the stairs to the beach, dropped their burden and headed back up. Blair turned to Jolene, who was sitting in the Morris chair. "Jim says your husband made it in."  
  
"He did. The bar doesn't close very often. Jack told me the waves were incredible."  
  
"Trust me, they were." Blair became distracted again as the men walked by the house a second time, heading down the stairs to the beach. Everyone's arms were loaded down again. "What's all that stuff for? They building something?" Blair stretched, trying to get a better view Jim's burden. Was that a sledge hammer?  
  
When Jim came back up the stairs, Blair was just clearing the doorway onto the deck, Annabel and Jolene closely following.   
  
"No." Jim strode toward Blair, looking determined. "Back inside."  
  
"Jiiim." Blair couldn't dodge him. Jim was too damn healthy and Blair had used up all his strength to get this far. Jim took him by the shoulders and turned him around. One crutch was pulled out from under his arm and Jim moved in close to manhandle him back into the living room. "Hey, man. I was just…"  
  
"I told him not to," Annabel reported.  
  
"Traitor," Blair accused as Jim lowered him back onto the sofa. He looked up at his friend. "I just want to see what's going on. I can't see from up here. I wasn't doing the steps."  
  
"Just give us a few minutes to get set up, okay?" Jim said. "We're not going to leave you out. I promise."  
  
"Fine, fine." Blair pushed his hair back and rolled his eyes, causing Jolene to giggle.   
  
"I'm not kidding, Sandburg. Stay put until we come and get you." With that last warning, Jim left.  
  
"We can talk," Annabel said, returning to her seat next to Blair. "I want to ask about my grandson. He's like Jim. He can see and hear better than us. My people have stories about this, although I didn't know this occurred outside the tribe."  
  
Blair nodded, the activity on the beach forgotten. "Actually, I first read about it among the people in Peru. A Sentinel protects the tribe, helps them."  
  
Annabel smiled. "Yes. They are the best hunters. In the old days, our chief would divide the food caught by this person. When Clifford first started to show signs, the school teachers would not believe him. Sometimes he goes into a trance."  
  
Jolene frowned. "They said he had attention deficit disorder."  
  
"No, no, no." Blair waved his hands. "They're wrong. It's just his senses. He needs to learn how to use them. Does he show signs of all five enhanced?"  
  
The woman looked at each other. "I'm not sure," Jolene answered. "How can we find out?"  
  
"I can perform some simple tests. We can do it today, right here."  
  
"I was right about you." Annabel smiled. "You help Jim with his gifts, don't you?"  
  
"Well, yeah. Sort of." Blair bit his lip. Jim was going to totally chew him out. He looked out the window, right into the eyes of his sentinel. Blair raised an eyebrow in question. Should he continue? At Jim's nod of approval, Blair spoke. "Yeah. I was looking for someone like Jim. First I wanted to study him, write a paper. But now…"  
  
"Chako kunamokst," Annabel said.  
  
Blair rubbed his earlobe, hoping she'd explain. He knew of Chinook Jargon, but didn't speak it.   
  
The old lady smiled. "You both became united. A team."  
  
Blair beamed at her. "Yeah."  
  
Blair was alone again. Annabel and Jolene had excused themselves, saying it was time for them to start the salmon. He didn't have to wait long until Jim appeared, climbing the steps. The effect caused the older man to look as if he was rising from the Pacific Ocean. He entered the house and held out his hand to Blair. "Bathroom first?"  
  
Yeah, Blair needed the bathroom. He let Jim pull him to his feet and took up the crutches. "I'm good."  
  
Jim shadowed him anyway and stood outside the closed door. When he was finished, Blair was assisted out to the deck and up to the edge where the staircase began. The sand below had been transformed into an outdoor kitchen. Tables of plywood rested on sawhorses. Unlit Tikki-torches stuck out of the sand. Lawn chairs sat in a circle. Some sort of cooking area had been established. Clifford was still working on digging what appeared to be a fire pit.   
  
"Jim?" Blair felt keen disappointment. He leaned on the single crutch heavily. Just coming this far had tired him out. "I can't."  
  
"Relax, we have a plan," Jim said.   
  
Jack saw them and quickly climbed up the stairs. He moved to Blair's other side. "You're looking better than last time I saw you."  
  
Blair huffed. "Considering I was doing my human Popsicle imitation, that's not hard to do. Thanks for saving us yesterday."  
  
"You're welcome." Jack bent down, reached around behind Blair with both hands and grasped Jim's forearms in a strong hold.   
  
"Okay, Sandburg. Sit back, " Jim ordered.  
  
Blair was chair-carried down the stairs and set down in a blanket covered lounge chair in the sand. Jim took a moment to wrap the blanket around his legs. A cool breeze off the water lifted Blair's hair and brought a fresh scent of salt. In the full rays of the afternoon sun, Blair's entire body relaxed. He leaned back against the chair and sighed. "A man could get used to this royal treatment."  
  
"Keep this on, your highness," Jim warned in a mock growl. He removed his own hat and stuck it on Blair's head "You're on medications that don't recommend long exposure to direct sunlight." Jim left to work with Jack and Clifford.  
  
Blair didn't bother with an answer. His arms were covered with his long sleeves. Even with the warmth from the sun, the blanket felt nice and he pulled it up to his chest. His traitorous body was tired again. He yawned, his jaw cracking. Through half closed eyes he watched the women at the table. They were surrounded by three ice chests in the sand. From Blair's angle, he couldn't see what they were doing; only that it involved fixing food.   
  
A shallow, square-shaped fire pit had been dug in the sand. Jack had a sledge hammer and was pounding the last of four metal stakes into the ground. The stakes formed a square two feet by two feet. Jim and Clifford had their knees in the sand, both sitting on their heels as they formed long tubes out of chicken wire. The tubes looked to be about three inches in diameter and three feet long. For the life of him, Blair couldn't figure this out. He'd been all over the world practically and seen tons of cooking styles. But this one was new.  
  
Annabel appeared at his side with a tall Tupperware glass of ice tea.   
  
"Thanks." Blair took a small sip as he watched Jim and the other two work. Clifford took one of the mesh tubes and slipped over a metal stake. Jim did the same. When all four stakes had their own tube the men started filling them with charcoal briquettes from a large bag. Clifford was talking to Jim, his face glowing with pleasure. Blair had to smile. Jim looked like he was enjoying himself. Although Blair couldn't hear them, he was too far away and they were talking softly, something about their mannerisms and covert glances told Blair he was being talked about.  
  
"Not fair, man," Blair said under his breath.  
  
Both man and boy snickered.   
  
When the tubes were full, Jack lit the base of each briquette tower with a butane lighter. Then the strangest thing came next. Clifford took a large roll of aluminum foil and Jack held one end. Jim stepped back and the two started wrapping the entire square in foil, forming a three foot high enclosure of shiny aluminum. They used masking tape to hold the end down and keep it from unwrapping.   
  
Jim came over to Blair's lounge chair, his own ice tea in hand, and took a seat in an adjacent chair. "How's it going?"  
  
"What is that?" Blair nodded to the fire pit.  
  
"I'm told it will be a 350 degree oven in about twenty minutes."  
  
"You're kidding me."  
  
Jim shrugged. His attention turned back to Clifford who was approaching.  
  
"So, can we play Yatzee?" He looked at Blair, then to Jim. "The three of us?"  
  
Jim leaned forward, resting elbows on knees. "Tell you what, Cliff. Blair's under doctor's orders not to do anything but sit. If you go back up and look in that end table next to the sofa, you'll find a bunch of games and stuff. Pick something out and I'll play it with you."  
  
Clifford pounded up the stairs without a backward glance.   
  
"I'm not under any such order," Blair complained, feeling just a little hurt at the way the kid had thrown him aside to play with Jim exclusively.  
  
"Sandburg." Jim sounded exasperated. "I heard the man tell you myself."  
  
"Well, sure," Blair said easily. "They have to say stuff like that, Jim. The insurance companies make them. It's not like anyone expects me to listen to it. If I do something that makes my leg hurt, I stop. It's easy."   
  
Jim's eyes widened with mild horror. "Oh my god, you're certifiable. It's like you're your own worst enemy or something." He raised a finger and pointed it at Blair's nose. "Listen to me. Not everything is a conspiracy."  
  
Clifford was back, holding a black felt cloth bag. He looked happy with discovery. Jim stood up, shooting Blair one last warning. "Stay put, Chief."  
  
Blair snickered. "Get a clue, Jim. Insurance companies are really the ones in charge. They've got their hands in everything."   
  
Man, Jim was so much fun to hassle.   
  
The older man ignored him. "So, what are we playing, Cliff?"  
  
Holding the bag high, Clifford smiled. "Found these. Wanna divide them evenly and play till one of us has the others?"  
  
Jim reached into the bag and pulled out a handful of glass marbles. He produced a feral grin. "You're on."  
  
Blair called out to their parting backs. "Sure! Pick a game the crippled guy can't play!" When neither answered, Blair yawned and fussed with the blanket around his legs. "At least no one can claim I lost my marbles."  
  
Blair watched Jim and Clifford drag a stick through the sand, making rings and lines for their marble game. Over by the food preparation table, Jack and the women were loading wet alder planks filled with salmon into a three tiered metal rack. He and Jolene carefully lowered it down into the foil wrapped fire pit. They laughed, talking quietly until Annabel shooed them both away. Husband and wife strolled hand in hand down the beach.   
  
Blair wondered what the life of a fisherman was like, going days on end without seeing his family. Few people realized how dangerous commercial fishing could be. It ranked higher in fatalities than police and fire fighting. Blair leaned back and sipped his tea. What if Jim had been something other than a cop? Blair could picture himself being a ride-a-long for a fisherman or a miner, or even a garbage truck driver.   
  
He snorted into his tea and wiped his face.   
  
Nah, the sentinel would become drawn to a job that protected the tribe. Well, a good sentinel, anyway.  
  
Another yawn snuck up on him.   
  
Jim looked up again. Blair had fallen asleep.   
  
Good. The kid needed more rest.  
  
"Ha, took your cat's eye." Clifford chuckled happily.  
  
"Not the green one!" Jim looked away from Blair and back down at the sand. Sure enough, the forest green marble was missing. "Crap. Are you hustling me?"  
  
"You're just now figuring this out?" Clifford grinned.  
  
"You realize, we have to give all these back, right?"  
  
"Yeah, I figured. I'm cool with that. Got my own at home."  
  
Jim nodded. "Just so we're clear. My turn yet?"  
  
"Nope, I'm still going." He missed the next shot and waved. "Okay, go ahead."  
  
"I'm taking you down, partner." Jim curled his back and got his face low. He lined up his thumb, estimating his distance and slope like a pro golfer. His marble smacked one of Clifford's marbles and Jim grinned.  
  
"Can I ask you a question?" Clifford asked, his face serious.  
  
"Sure."  
  
"How good are you?" The kid pointed to his own eyes and ears.   
  
"Pretty good. Getting better as Blair works with me." Jim rocked back to sit in the sand. "When did you start to realize you could see and hear better than anyone else?"  
  
The game was forgotten while they talked. "About a year ago, I guess. I told a few folks. Kids didn't believe me; adults said I was imagining things." Clifford shrugged as if it didn't matter.  
  
Jim knew better. "Listen to me. Don't let them get to you. We're different, yeah, but it can be a huge difference, a good difference."  
  
Looking up the slope at the sleeping man, Clifford pointed to Blair with his chin. "He helps you, doesn't he?"  
  
"Yeah. Someone called him my guide once," Jim said. "That's what he does, too. He's pretty good at it."  
  
"My grandmother believed me, right from the start. She helps me, too."  
  
Jim was nodding. "Good. I'm glad. My dad wasn't so understanding."  
  
"I think it's different for us. We have old tales of spirits and stuff. They gave my ancestors gifts. My folks just figure I'm lucky, I guess, after Grandma set them straight." He snickered. "She's a tough lady. If you had her for a guide, you'd know it."  
  
Jim leaned forward. "Sandburg's tough. Don't let his looks fool you."  
  
"Yeah?" Clifford replied with a mischievous look. "Bet he doesn't take a switch to your butt when you misbehave."  
  
Jim laughed out loud. "Okay, I think your grandmother wins."  
  
They played until Jim lost his marbles. Clifford smoothed out their course and started building another, the marbles already divided. Jim could smell the salmon baking. The tangy scent of the tangerine glaze was making him drool like a mongrel in a meat market. Gulls flew overhead, checking out the intrusion into their beach. Closer to the water, small sandpipers ran like late commuters after a metro bus. They were amazing birds. Jim watched, feeling humble and even a little guilty to be relaxing when these creatures had to spend every waking moment looking for food to survive the day.   
  
Still, that was their life and this was his.   
  
Jim looked back to Blair. The blanket still adequately covered the sleeping man. Annabel was sitting calmly at his side, basket at her feet. She had a crochet project that spilled over her lap in cascading greens and browns. It looked like an afghan.   
  
They played until Jack and Jolene returned and Annabel announced the food was ready.  
  
"Sure, I'm winning and we have to quit," Jim complained as Clifford started scooping the marbles back into the bag.   
  
Blair woke reluctantly. His mood improved when Jim set a plate of food down on his lap. All chairs were dragged through the sand to Blair's lounger. For several long minutes the only sounds heard were compliments to the cooks and appreciative murmurs. Jim's taste buds elbowed each other to stand in front of the line for each bite. The side dishes were just as delicious; red potato salad with just the perfect amount of mustard and Parker House rolls that tasted homemade.   
  
With a sigh, Jim set aside his empty plate. "I'm almost ashamed to serve my dessert, folks."  
  
"I'm sure it's great," Jolene told him kindly.  
  
"It sure smelled good," Blair added. "What is it?"  
  
"A choice; cherry cobbler and apple pie," Jim said. "The cherries are canned, but the apples are fresh."  
  
"Mom! Can I have both?" Clifford blurted out in typical ten-year-old fashion. Something in his mother's expression worked like a sharp reprimand because he ducked his head and blushed. "Sorry."  
  
"I think a few extra servings might make their way to your house, Cliff," Jim said. "As long as some of that left over salmon and your grandmother's potato salad finds their way to my refrigerator."  
  
The look on the kid's face melted even his mother's resolve.   
  
"I think that might be arranged," Jolene said with a straight face.   
  
Sounds of an approaching vehicle caused Jim to set aside his plate and stand. He picked up more sounds, voices speaking. Recognizing the distinct language of police officers and dispatcher communicating with each other, Jim relaxed. "Sounds like Nettle's here."  
  
It was Alice Nettle. She walked around the house and down the stairs in response to Jim's hail. Just the set of her mouth and the way she stiffly descended the stairs, Jim knew something was up. After solemnly greeting all the people present, she looked to Jim. "Can I speak with you?"  
  
"Sure." Jim followed her down to the water, even though he knew Clifford was likely to pick up every word. He took a second to meet the kid's inquiring look and made a covert wave of his hand. Thankfully, Annabel was already at his side, instructing the child not to listen in.  
  
"We think McKnight is still in the area," Nettle said. She stood, elbows askew, right hand resting casually on her handgun. "We have a report of a theft from a logging outfit he sometimes worked at."  
  
"What was taken?"  
  
She made a face. "Dynamite and caps."  
  
"Damn." Jim scrubbed his face. "Any idea what his target might be?"  
  
"Well, I'm thinking he's not too fond of you two right at this moment." Nettle managed a quirky grin. "Thought I'd warn you."  
  
"Jim?" Blair called from his chair. He was trying to stand but Clifford's family was thwarting him.   
  
"Sandburg should know," Jim said. "Hell, they all should know. They're part of this, too."  
  
Nettle pursed her lips in thought as she studied the group. "I've known this family all my life. Annabel and my mom went to school together. I agree, we can trust them to keep quiet."  
  
The two cops returned to the party.  
  
"What's happening?" Blair asked.  
  
Jim perched on the end of Blair's lounge chair while Nettle took his sit. "McKnight might be in the area and in possession of some explosives."  
  
"Oh, wow." Clifford leaned forward, then was hauled back as his mother wrapped a protective arm around his shoulders.   
  
"That's doesn't make any sense," Blair said. "Any normal person would be halfway to Florida by now."  
  
"I agree." Nettle scratched an ear. "Something tells me McKnight isn't normal."  
  
Jim turned to Blair. "Chief, you talked to the university people, what did they tell you? We need to know everything we can about him, if we're going to figure out his next move."  
  
Blair bit his lip in thought for a moment. "Well, basically just what I told you before. He faked some paperwork which amounted to stealing and got fired. He was lucky they didn't file charges."  
  
"You said he also 'pissed' off some folks," Jim reminded him. "What was that about?"  
  
Blair made an 'oh, yeah' look. "Right, right. Way I understood it, he was selling himself as the leading authority on the Lewis and Clark Expedition. Only his research was shoddy and some of his facts were really more like leaps of the imagination. He tried to usurp another professor's standing on some issue with the upcoming bicentennial and really ticked off the entire bunch. Got kicked off the committee."  
  
Jim started to get an idea. "So, it's a major pride thing with him."   
  
"Looks like." Blair's face got a vague look, like his thoughts were far away. "You know… I haven't really had time to process this because I've been sleeping so much, but what if…" Then, like a runaway train down a hill, Blair's explanation picked up speed. "What if - oh, man this is so wrong – but what if he was faking the journal all along! Like he comes up with some lie that backs up one of his theories. You know, Jim. Like that guy being poisoned instead of having his appendix rupture. So he fakes the journal and fakes it being discovered and suddenly he's vindicated and gets all the attention." Blair looked horrified. "I can't believe anyone would stoop so low, it's just not right!"  
  
Jim was glad Blair hadn't noticed the smile that he failed to keep off his own face. You'd think Blair was describing a mass murder or something. Obviously his friend held the pursuit of knowledge up there with sainthood. With a slight head shake, Jim returned to his own thoughts. He looked at Nettle. "I don't think we're in any danger."  
  
"You don't, why?"  
  
"I think your target is the Lewis and Clark Interpretive Center," Jim said.  
  
Blair became even more outraged. "No way, man! We've got to stop him!"  
  
The hard part had been Blair.   
  
Jim sat beside Nettle as they sped down the narrow two-lane road toward Cape Disappointment, painfully aware the back seat was empty. His partner had been less than pleased when Jim had ordered him to stay behind. The reaction had been similar to a mini explosion. After a brief, very heated argument which Jim had been forced to end with a command decision that left Blair trembling with rage, Jim and Nettle had driven off.  
  
Even though it was after hours for the interpretive center, the state park was right next door. Hikers could easily be in the area. Jolene had insisted on having her husband drive her to the clinic and notify the doctor, just in case there were casualties.   
  
To Jim's relief, Annabel had informed the family she was staying with Blair. Clifford stayed with his grandmother.  
  
Nettle parked in the lower parking lot and the two cops walked up the asphalt path to the concrete building. She had requested her dispatcher contact the proper person to meet them with a key to get in; it didn't look like this person had arrived yet, the lot was empty.  
  
Jim listened as they neared the center. He could hear water dripping. Each plop created an echo that sounded like a large room. But the sound was coming from under his feet. "Are there caves here?"  
  
Nettle shook her head, puzzled, then realization showed on her face. "The bunkers are below us." She pointed at the round base where the large guns had been installed during the war. "There are corridors that lead to the old ordinance storage rooms."  
  
Jim could see an open iron door, half gone from years of rust, standing ajar. "Are they locked up after hours?"  
  
"No. I don't think so." Nettle slowed her pace along with Jim. "You're thinking he used the bunkers?"  
  
Jim wasn't sure, but it was possible. The underground bunkers would be lined in concrete. The blast would have to be pretty big to damage the building above it. "How much dynamite was taken?"  
  
She must have been reading his thoughts because she got a grim look on her face and met his eyes. "Enough to dump this bluff into the water below. Should we go check it out?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Jim went first. He had told her his time in the Army taught him how to locate explosives and disarm them. This wasn't entirely a lie. He did have training. He just wished he had Joel Taggart by his side. The corridor was wide. It smelled like mildew and moss. Water dripped from the flat, concrete ceiling through old cracks that ran along the edges. They walked into an intersection and were given the choice of right, left or straight ahead. A dim light played on the floor of the darken hallway to their right. A faint sound drifted down from this direction. Jim turned toward it, Nettle close behind.   
  
They found a room protected by a metal gate. Through the gate's bars they could see the center had created an authentic-looking storage room housing large rounds of ammunition, or ordinance, in floor to ceiling racks on either side of the room. Old fashioned wheeled carts for carrying the rounds were still in the room. A small wooden table and a chair sat in the corner, probably used by the guard stationed to keep track of each deadly missile. Jim looked at the small torpedo-shaped rounds.   
  
"Tell me those are empty," Jim said in a low voice.  
  
"Yeah," Nettle assured him. "Just for show." She stood near a padlock that kept the gate from swinging open. When she reached out with a hand and jiggled it, the lock fell open. "Oops."  
  
The noise was louder here, coming from within the room. He knew that sound. Sandburg sometimes used a battered wind up alarm clock to wake up early. It sounded the same. Jim took a deep breath and filtered out the smells of concrete, mold, rust and the essence of age. He found was they were searching for. The same smell from his adventure last week with Quinn.   
  
Dynamite.   
  
"It's here," Jim told her.  
  
"So I figured," Nettle said, threading the lock through the ring. She craned her neck to peer at the gate. "You think this is rigged?"  
  
Jim's hawk gaze examined the gate's edges, the ceiling, floor and walls. "No tripwires. Something tells me McKnight isn't that smart."  
  
Nettle still paused. "Look, this is my jurisdiction. My problem. I'd understand if you wanted to bow out on this."  
  
"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear you say that," Jim told her with a growl.  
  
She answered with an appreciative grin and opened the gate.  
  
There were times when Jim had to put on a show for others. Times when he had to keep his sentinel abilities under wrap. This was not one of those times. He targeted the shelf were the dynamite smell and ticking sound came from and leaned his head in just enough to see the sticks of dynamite bundled together with tape hidden behind the ordinance. Two insulated wires stuck out from the middle and ran to an alarm clock. McKnight had included a small six volt battery on one of the wires. He had taken each wire and attached them to the clock's big and little hands so that when they passed, the exposed copper ends would touch. The electric circuit would be complete and send enough voltage to the blasting cap within the dynamite to blow.  
  
The center was thirty minutes away from becoming a fish habitat.  
  
It was so simple, it was scary.  
  
"How many sticks were taken?" Jim asked.  
  
"Twelve."  
  
"We found them. You got a Leatherman?" Jim asked. "With a scissor attachment?"  
  
She slapped it in his extended palm, in a nurse to doctor style. "You know what you're doing, right? I'm making payments on my retirement acreage. I'd like to think I'd get a chance to use it."  
  
"You got a will? Just in case?" he teased as he found the small tool he wanted on the multi-tool device and pulled it out with his fingernail.  
  
"Funny."  
  
Jim leaned back in and carefully snipped the wire with the battery attached, just in case. He snipped the other side and removed the battery all together. Now even if he screwed up and allowed the ends of the wire to touch, there was no more electrical charge to flow. Still, he gently removed the wires from the clock. Everything else he left as is. There were fingerprints to look for.  
  
"Call your bomb people and evidence teams," Jim said.   
  
Steven McKnight gripped the binoculars and watched the deputy and that city cop enter the bunkers from the northern adjacent cliff bluff. He cursed under his breath. How the hell did they know to go underground? Shouldering his backpack, he turned north. His revenge was denied him. It wasn't fair! He couldn't risk using his beater of a car. Too many people would recognize it. He needed to steal a new car and split.   
  
McKnight considered the state park. Lots of cars there, but there were lots of rangers too. He needed time to hotwire. The trail he was on led all the way to North Head Lighthouse and beyond to where the park's boundary met private land.  
  
Where that beach house sat.   
  
McKnight had not seen the long haired kid with the cop. Maybe he was still in the hospital. He could hike to the house. The cop's truck might be parked there. He could use it to get into Oregon then steal another before the cop knew it was gone.  
  
With the sun just starting to touch the cold waters of the western horizon, McKnight picked up his pace. He should have just enough light left to reach the beach house.  
  
"Okay, Clifford." Blair leaned back in his chair. "Looks like all five senses are heightened."  
  
"That makes me like Detective Ellison?" Clifford asked as he removed his blindfold.  
  
"Yep."   
  
At the mention of his partner's name, Blair started to worry again. He knew Annabel was doing her best to distract him by demanding they test her grandson. And the tests did need to be done. But Blair would have preferred to go with Jim.   
  
They were in the kitchen. Annabel had set up the glasses of water with the minute traces of salt, sugar and vanilla. The kid had nailed it. Blair had taken a pad of paper and drawn a star pattern, then removed the top three pages and had Clifford pick up the impression with his fingertips. Annabel had picked up a sand dollar from the beach and hidden it behind the toilet bowl. Clifford had smelled it after walking through each room a couple of times.  
  
"Will I see the cat again?" Clifford asked, seemingly out of the blue.  
  
Okay, that was a weird question. "What?"  
  
Annabel was at the sink, washing the dishes. She turned, wiping her wet hands on a kitchen towel. "During his vision quest, he saw a large black cat."  
  
"Yeah, the size of a mountain lion." The boy became animated. "That's how I knew. My guardian spirit."  
  
"Wow," Blair said in a whisper. "What happened?"  
  
"Detective Ellison and I talked. First I thought he was a spirit, too. I asked him what my spirit power would be, but he didn't understand." Clifford shrugged, then his face brightened with excitement. "Now, I think I know. I'm going to be a protector, like him. I want to become a police officer."  
  
Shooting Annabel a quick, furtive look and seeing nothing but pride on her face, Blair grinned at the youth sitting at the table with him. "Know what? I think that's exactly right. You're going to make one awesome cop."  
  
Two dishes of dessert appeared on the table. Annabel had served them with both the cobbler and the pie. She joined them at the table with a small serving of cobbler. From her position she could see out the window toward the clearing used to park vehicles. "I think they're back."  
  
Blair snatched up the crutches. His leg protested as he jumped up and hurried toward the back kitchen door. "Great!" He swung the door open and looked out. "I don't see Nettle's car."   
  
Just Jim's rental truck. In the deepening shadows of dusk, Blair realized the driver's side door was ajar. Just then, a tall form stood, his head and shoulders appearing. Panic hit him like a punch in the gut as he recognized the face.  
  
"Oh shit!" Blair fell back from the doorway, almost losing his balance as he used the rubber stopper end of his right crutch to slam the door closed so hard he feared the glass window would break. He leaned forward on wobbly legs to turn the deadbolt into place. "Lock the front door! Now!" he ordered in a hiss.  
  
McKnight was charging the door.  
  
Clifford's chair fell with a clatter as he ran to follow the instructions.   
  
Just as Blair turned in the narrow alcove, McKnight slammed into the door.   
  
The lock held.  
  
"Annabel, run!" Blair shouted. He knew the door wasn't going to last another solid hit like that. Maybe if they ran out the other door, they could hide in the trees.   
  
One crutch tip got snarled in the items piled by the door, the stuff from the picnic on the beach. Jack and Jolene had gathered up all the food and left them inside where the raccoons wouldn't get to them. Jim had told them both to leave it inside by the door because everyone was in a hurry to leave and they could sort it out later. Blair lifted his crutch and tried to quickly untangle it from the plastic bags with a shake.   
  
The door crashed off its frame, swinging in with the help of McKnight's booted foot. The door's edge smashed into Blair's right hip, shoulder and head. A hot flash of white pain centering near his injured leg traveled up to his skull, lighting every pain receptor on the way. Bouncing hard off the back wall, Blair crumpled, hitting the floor hard.   
  
Both crutches were yanked from his grasp. He didn't' care. He could only lie still, curled on his side, while he panted through the waves of pain, his eyes squeezed shut. McKnight shouted orders, basic words that Blair used to understand but the pain somehow made him forget. The tip of a hiking boot roughly prodded his shin. Blair ignored it. Finally he could feel small hands on his arms and shoulders. He was gently urged to sit up.  
  
"Blair," Annabel said, her face close to his. "You can do this. Stand."  
  
Teeth clenched, Blair answered. "C-crutches."  
  
"Forget it." McKnight sounded furious. "Not after that last time." He cursed and kicked Blair's lower back. "Get up! Move!"  
  
Okay, being this guy's soccer ball was getting old. Blair shamelessly used the woman to rise unsteadily on one leg. McKnight ordered them forward and Blair hobbled back to the kitchen chair. Normal vision was returning now, no more pain induced lightshows. Out of the corner of one eye, Blair could see McKnight had a gun in his hand. It looked familiar, like Jim's. He heard sounds of drawers being opened and slammed.   
  
"Both hands behind your back."  
  
Blair was slow to move and was punished with a sharp cuff to the back of his head. Quickly, Blair extended both arms around the back of his chair and crossed his wrists. Flexible tacky strips bound them together, making an odd scratching sound. McKnight had found a roll of masking tape. After multiple passes, it was done. A few turns and Blair could have broken the restraints easily, but even thread was as strong as handcuffs if you used enough. Blair tested the restraints as McKnight started to work on Annabel. He couldn't break them.  
  
Hey, where was Clifford?   
  
He looked at Annabel sitting across the table from them, their eyes speaking without words. Annabel looked calm. Clifford must have snuck out of the house. That was good - really, really good. Blair relaxed some. The kid was quick. He could run to the center and bring back Jim and Nettle.   
  
All he and Annabel had to do was stay alive until help arrived.  
  
Nettle and her department ran a very efficient crime scene. Within minutes, additional resources began to arrive. Jim stood back, knowing this was not his jurisdiction. He'd have helped if asked, but he wasn't about to initiate another call to his captain by some pissed off authority. He had tried to call Simon earlier in the day, even before dinner. But Rhonda had explained there had been an emergency budget meeting and Simon was unavailable all day. Jim had left a message that he would call tomorrow.  
  
It was dark now, temperatures were dropping. If this continued, Jim was going to regret not grabbing his coat. He knew time wasn't an issue in this type of investigation. Each square foot had to be processed for possible evidence. This was the part of police work the rarely made the prime time cop shows.   
  
"Coffee?"   
  
Jim gratefully took the Styrofoam cup from the State Park Ranger. The coffee was hot and tasted surprisingly good.  
  
"I just brewed a pot inside the center," the ranger continued. He'd arrived with the first wave of officials and had helped with the Interpretive Center search. Jim had also assisted in the search, finding no signs that McKnight had broken in. "God, I'm still in kind of a shock. The thought of losing all of this is unthinkable."  
  
"Yeah, I know." Jim leaned against the bumper of the bomb squad van, feeling the heat from the engine block.  
  
"I guess we're lucky to have you visiting." The guy was young, probably only a year older than Blair. He wore a park ranger's uniform, still bearing the sharp creases from an iron.  
  
The man was fishing for information, probably curious. Jim decided to indulge. "My partner and I just finished a routine prisoner transport, but it went south. He got shot and needed a few days of rest."  
  
"Sorry to hear that. He's not here, is he?"  
  
"No." Jim looked over at the concrete building. "In fact, I'd like to call him. You think I can use the phone in there?"  
  
"Sure."  
  
Before they could go in, two uniformed deputies emerged from the bunker, Jim recognized Nettle. He could tell something was up. Seeing Jim, she trotted up a short gravel incline, holding a portable radio in her hand. Jim knew that all radios had been turned off until the bomb squad was able to make absolute certain there was not a second bomb with a remote detonator. The radio frequencies used by the police could accidentally trigger it. This decision had left them out of radio communication, until now apparently.  
  
"Jim, we've found McKnight's car. He left it parked in one of the overflow lots below," Nettle reported, forehead creased with worry.  
  
Jim immediately searched the surrounding dark woods, seeing only the occasional raccoon. Further away, about a mile, he could see a deer and her fawn grazing on a grassy slope. "He must have stayed to watch." Damn, Jim realized he'd blown it. He had a chance to catch McKnight. Still, finding the bomb had been more important. "So, he's on foot."  
  
"Yeah," Nettle answered. "We're surrounded on three sides by water. He'd have to go north. I've notified the rangers to step up their patrols in the state park. I don't want him hurting a camper during a car jack."  
  
North.  
  
Jim got a bad feeling. The beach house was on the other side of the state park. Chances were good the whole area was veined with foot trails. Suddenly using the phone was more than just a polite necessity. He really needed to hear Blair's voice.  
  
The phone rang.   
  
Blair watched McKnight continue to eat. It was ludicrous, when a person thought about it. And Blair found himself unable to do anything but think about it. He'd come down here, with his best friend, to recover from being shot.   
  
Him – Blair Sandburg – had been shot in the leg. He still couldn't get over it.   
  
But instead of resting, he was tied up while the guy that left him for dead yesterday was eating their dessert. At the rate the man was going, Blair would never know if Jim's pie was any good. Hell, Blair hadn't realized Jim knew how to bake a pie.  
  
Life just sucked sometimes.  
  
"You going to just let it ring?" Blair asked after five rings.  
  
McKnight lifted his head, brown eyes assessing him briefly. "Yes."  
  
Blair tilted his head to the side and raised his eyebrows. "Oh… so, what's next? By now you know Jim's found the dynamite."  
  
Brown eyes narrowed, the fork shoveling pie paused. McKnight swallowed. "How'd he know, anyway?"  
  
In the other room, the phone was silent.  
  
Shrugging, trying to look like he wasn't petrified – not so much for his own life, but for the woman sitting silently across the table from him – Blair answered, "The cops told us about the stolen dynamite. We figured the center was the only thing around here you'd want to destroy."  
  
The man's face turned sour. "They're fools. They don't deserve to be in charge."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"The board of stuffed shirts. They run the center, plan the exhibits and are organizing the bi-centennial." The plate was empty now and he pushed it away while wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "They refuse to recognize I'm the authority on Lewis and Clark. There isn't a person alive that knows more than me."  
  
Blair wet his lips as he assessed the man before him, seeing a tint of madness in McKnight's mannerisms. This guy was so in his own world, he'd taken a leave of absence from the real one. "So you created the fake journal? Just to be recognized?"  
  
Slapping the table and causing Annabel to rear back in surprise, McKnight leaned close to Blair's face. "They refused to listen to me! Said my research was shoddy. Me! Shoddy! I've spent my entire life studying this era in America's past. Those idiots won't look past the script handed down by their fathers. They'd rather be stuck in their own safe history, refusing to believe reality."  
  
"Who's reality? Yours?" Blair said. "I talked to your fellow professors, man. Your conclusions are faulty, they lacked proof. Your papers read more like a pulp fiction novel then an actual account of history. You can't change history just to make a name for yourself."  
  
McKnight's lips curled back in a cruel sneer. "Do you really want to piss me off, Sandburg?" He lifted Jim's gun from the table and pressed the barrel's tip into Blair's forehead, right between his eyebrows, pushing Blair back until the chair stopped him.  
  
Blair felt the gun's forward sight digging into his skin, knowing the best case scenario would be a bruise and not wanting to think what the worst case scenario was going to look like. He closed his eyes and tried not to show fear. If that failed, he hoped he wasn't going to need a clean change of underwear. "A-all I'm saying, dude, is think about this, okay? No one's been hurt yet. You can just walk away."  
  
The gun pulled back and Blair could see Annabel relax her rigid posture.   
  
"I'd rather drive. Where's the keys to the truck?"  
  
Blair tried to remember where he'd put the key. Even though he couldn't drive until his leg healed, Jim had given him a spare key to the rental truck. A back up plan. Jim was famous for thinking ahead. If Jim lost the key, or locked it in the truck, Blair would have the extra. "My backpack, I think. It's in the living room."  
  
McKnight pushed away from the table and left them to look. Blair leaned forward, looking at Annabel. "You okay?"  
  
Annabel nodded. "I'm fine. Do you think he'll just leave us?"  
  
"I hope so." Blair started to say more but McKnight was back carrying a small jacket and looking pissed.  
  
"Who else is here?" the criminal demanded, thrusting the coat out like it was a dirty animal and shaking it, then throwing it down on the floor. "A kid? Where is he?"  
  
"He left a while ago," Blair said. "He just left the coat."  
  
McKnight's gaze switched to the table, as if seeing for the first time it held three servings of dessert. "You're lying." Turning to Annabel, he slapped her hard across the face. "Where is he?"  
  
"YOU SICK SON OF A BITCH!" Blair lunged out of the chair, forgetting he was tethered to it with bound hands. He fell back in the seat, ignoring the pain in his leg. "Leave her alone!"  
  
McKnight turned back to Blair. He brought the gun up and fired.   
  
Even at near point blank range, a gun had to be aimed. McKnight might know his way around a history book, but he didn't seem to know much about guns. The bullet whined past Blair's right arm and imbedded into the wall at his side. McKnight corrected his aim and stared into Blair's eyes. "Stop lying to me."  
  
Annabel answered. "He ran out the front when you came in. We don't know where he is now."  
  
"Who was he?" McKnight asked. The gun was still pointing at Blair's chest, but he looked at the woman.   
  
"My grandson. George's nephew."  
  
That brought a reaction. "You're Annabel Ramsey? George's mother?"  
  
"I am." She met his gaze without fear showing, sitting tall, one side of her face still red from where he'd hit her.   
  
Without a word McKnight left them again and returned seconds later with Blair's leather backpack. He dumped the contents on the table. Blair saw the Hertz keychain and nodded. "The yellow one, single key. That's it," he said, his voice shaking from adrenaline.   
  
"I'm out of here," McKnight said.  
  
Blair felt like cheering. He exchanged a look with Annabel, both of them thinking the same thing. McKnight was pawing through Blair's wallet, finding his money, even his special hundred dollar bill he kept folded and tucked behind his voter's card. Blair didn't care - if he had the key to Fort Knox he would have gladly offered it. Anything to get McKnight away from Annabel and out of their faces.   
  
McKnight didn't say good-bye or even look either prisoner in the eyes as he walked toward the door. Before he reached it, Blair heard the sound of an approaching vehicle being driven too fast for the dirt road leading toward the beach house. Without being able to look out the window, Blair knew Jim was back. He could feel it in his chest. McKnight cursed and pulled back from the splintered door frame, hugging the wall. He held the gun up near his shoulder and waited.  
  
Blair sagged in the chair. Damn, damn, damn! Why had Jim picked that moment to arrive?  
  
Jim saw the open door of his rental truck. He heard the extra heartbeat inside the house.   
  
"He's here."  
  
Nettle looked grim. "You sure?"  
  
"Yeah," Jim answered. "He might still have my gun."  
  
She flipped the SUV in reverse and backed up until the vehicle just out of sight from the road, hidden by the Lodge Pole pines. Taking the mike off the holder, she reported McKnight's probable location to the other deputies, requesting backup. Jim had his door open and was stepping out when she grabbed his arm. "Wait, take the shotgun." With a deft twist, the twelve-gauge, pump action was free from its upright mount between them and Jim lifted it out.  
  
"We should have parked on the road and walked in," Jim muttered. He could hear Blair's pounding heart, the way he'd sometimes make small gasps for air like he was getting ready to make a deep dive without a SCUBA. The kid was preparing himself, knowing a showdown was looming.  
  
They crept to the tree line, side by side. The darkness wasn't complete. A sky full of stars and a three quarter moon gave the landscape an eerie glow. But the tree's shadows should keep them from being spotted by those in the house. Jim concentrated on the back door, recognizing the violent entry it had suffered. He could hear someone standing just inside. He hefted the shotgun. "He knows we're here. He'll use them as hostages."  
  
"Some sort of big city training I've never heard of? You can see through walls now?"  
  
Jim didn't have time for jokes. He shot her a look. "Something like that."  
  
Nettle nodded, her mouth set with determination. "Any luck with cell phones here?"  
  
"No, the signal doesn't reach between the bluffs." Jim chewed the inside of his cheek as he pondered the possibilities. He could hear McKnight talking now. Blair was protesting. They weren't going to have time to wait for back up. "Trust me?"  
  
"Suppose so."  
  
"I'm circling around to the ocean side. Wait for my signal."  
  
Nettle looked suddenly leery, as if something she'd had for dinner had soured in her stomach. "Shit, Ellison. Just watch the crossfire, will ya?"  
  
Jim offered her a knowing smile and disappeared into the shadows.  
  
"Get up," McKnight ordered.   
  
Blair tried to rise from the chair. It was hard. Bound hands made it impossible unless he bent his elbows in a way to slip off the chair's back. McKnight's hand was fisted deep into his hair, yanking upward. Blair let the sharp pinpricks of pain along his scalp distract him from the agony in his tortured thigh as he finally stood.   
  
"We're getting out of here," McKnight said. "They won't shoot if I have a hostage."  
  
Blair bit hard on his lip. Walking was going to be interesting. The gunman's arm slipped around his neck. Blair was pulled back until his back pressed up against McKnight's side. It was when Blair had to put his full weight on his right leg for the third time, his knee buckled.   
  
"Stand up!"  
  
Blair couldn't answer. He was being choked by McKnight's arm. Suddenly the arm was gone and Blair dropped to the floor with all the grace of a drunken college freshman at his first frat party. His right arm twisted the wrong way, bringing a flash of pain shooting up to his shoulder.  
  
"You're useless." McKnight swung his foot again, boot tip catching Blair in the ribs.  
  
Blair hissed with pain. Streaks of white fire flashed across the inside of his eyelids as he curled into a tight ball of misery. When he felt he could open his eyes again without vomiting, he saw Annabel in the exact same position he had been. Gunman and new hostage were heading for the door.  
  
"No!" Blair shouted.  
  
The gun swung down to point at him. McKnight looked ruthlessly cold, devoid of any emotion. "Shut up."  
  
It was a struggle to sit and pure hell to kneel on his one good knee, but Blair managed. "I'll go… I can do it. J-just leave her, man."  
  
"Move any more and I'll kill you," McKnight warned.  
  
Before Blair could answer, a dark flash hurled itself from the doorway that led from the living room. Blair didn't think the front of the gun was a good place to be. He flung himself sideways just as he recognized their rescuer.  
  
It was Clifford. The youth silently ate up the distance between the doorway and McKnight in a single heartbeat, swinging something high over his head. He leapt up, brought his arm down hard. A loud cracking sound came just before the gun fired. For the second time in only a few minutes, Blair dodged a bullet, literally.   
  
Blair heard the strangest sound, like frozen rain hitting and bouncing on the kitchen floor.  
  
Annabel pulled free from McKnight's arm and dropped to her knees to scoot away from him. Like a prizefighter that had been KO'd, McKnight swayed a moment, then took a step. The gunman's foot flew out from underneath him and he fell.  
  
Hard.  
  
"Police!" Jim bellowed from the same doorway where Clifford had appeared seconds before. "Don't move!"  
  
The kitchen door burst open and Nettle stood in the exact same position, only with a handgun pointed at McKnight, not a shotgun like Jim. McKnight was oblivious to either cop. Jim entered the room, cautiously stepping around little round balls skittering on the floor, reminding Blair of the old fashioned pinball machines. Clifford was nudging the gunman's arm with his toe. He still held something in his hand, a cloth sack. As Blair watched, the last marble slipped out of a rip in a seam and dropped to the floor with a bounce.  
  
Jim pulled the boy back with an exasperated expression. "Not a good idea, Cliff."  
  
Nettle moved forward, her gun holstered as she drew her handcuffs and turned the unconscious man face down before cuffing both wrists behind his back. Only then did Jim set the shotgun on the table. Shuffling his feet, he went first to Annabel and cut her hands free with his pocket knife. Clifford followed close behind and the two enjoyed a warm embrace as Jim left them and shuffled over to Blair, kicking marbles clear as he moved.  
  
"Hey, partner." Jim knelt down and sawed through the masking tape.  
  
"Hey." Wrists free now, Blair pushed himself off the floor with his one good arm and sat, his back leaning against a kitchen cupboard. He finished peeling tape and then watched Jim straighten his right leg, which throbbed like a sonofabitch. His left arm hurt. "Blow anything up?"  
  
"Nah, we found the dynamite in time." Jim was running his fingers lightly over Blair's injured thigh.   
  
"I've been thinking, Jim."  
  
"Yeah?" Jim carefully bent Blair's knee and checked underneath.  
  
"Next time one of us needs some R and R after getting hurt? Let's look into those cruises."  
  
"What, and risk a replay of the USS Titanic?" Jim said, frowning and watched Blair favor his right arm. "I think you just put an end to your use of crutches, Chester."  
  
Jolene and Doctor Charlie made beach house calls. Once Annabel used the phone and talked to her daughter, both professionals appeared on the doorstep, along with a shell-shocked Jack. The reunion was hectic and heartwarming at the same time, with both Clifford's parents trying to play catch up with their older and younger generation's activities during the last several hours. They had arrived after McKnight was taken into custody. He had woken up five minutes after Clifford's attack, complaining of a headache.  
  
Blair was told in absolute clear language, that not even the most evasive politician could weasel out from under, to 'stay down'. Jim was right; Blair was banned from using crutches for awhile. His arm ligaments were strained, but not torn. Jim listened to the doctor and Blair talk as he helped Jack work on the ruined door off the kitchen. They ended up boarding it shut. Until it was properly fixed, the beach side door would get all the traffic.   
  
Finally, all the police, medical staff and Clifford's family were gone. It was nearly midnight. Jim took a second to wander through the small house after locking the front door. God, he was exhausted. He started a mental list as he did his survey.   
  
Living room wasn't too bad, just needed a good vacuum. If that spot by the door didn't come out, he'd rent a steam cleaner. One of the cops probably didn't take the time to wipe his feet properly. The kitchen was another story. Bullet holes in the wall and cupboard, a dent in the sheetrock, and a door busted off its frame.   
  
Damn, if this kept up, Jim was going to buy stock in the Armstrong Door Company or maybe Home Depot. Seems every villain in the state thought kicking in doors was part of the job description.  
  
"Jimmmm."  
  
Turning, Jim headed toward the bedroom. Blair lay just as Doctor Charlie had left him, sprawled on his back, still dressed in his sweatshirt, but wearing the flannel shorts, feet bare.   
  
"What do you need, Chief?"  
  
Blue eyes, which were too alert, considering the time, tracked him. Blair was tense, like a Chopec bowstring pulled all the way back, but not getting the release.   
  
"I know it's late, man. You're probably trashed, but I can't possibly sleep. All my books are in the living room. Bring them?"   
  
Jim frowned. "You should try and sleep."  
  
"No, won't work." Blair wriggled on the bed, as if he lay on a rack of nail points instead of a mattress. "Can't. I took that nap, remember?"   
  
It was the subtle hint of panic in Blair's voice that caught Jim's attention. He remembered the bullet holes in the kitchen and hearing McKnight's threats as he ran through the woods and across the open yard into the front door. Hell, Jim was still coming down from an adrenaline rush. Blair must be still in orbit.   
  
"Let's try this." Jim reached down and snagged the good arm, gently pulling Blair up to a sitting position.   
  
"What? I'm not supposed to get up."  
  
"I'll help. You won't be moving your leg at all," Jim promised. "You can sit in a hot tub. I'll bring you a book to read."  
  
Blair seemed eager to the idea. "Yeah, I can do that."  
  
While Blair soaked, Jim changed the sheets on his bed. He cracked open the window, the sound of the ocean surf filled the room. About the time Jim figured the bath water must be getting cold, he could hear the pipes flooding and the tap being turned on again. Blair wasn't ready to get out yet.  
  
Finally, it was fifteen to one. Jim entered the bathroom with hot towels he'd taken out from the dryer. "Come on, Aqua man, time's up."  
  
If Blair felt embarrassed about another man helping him out of a bathtub or assisting in drying him off, he didn't show it. Thankfully they didn't have to deal with wet hair. Blair had tied it into a high pony tail which he removed. Re-dressed in clean pajamas, Blair brushed his teeth. Jim played 'human crutch', supporting him back to the bedroom. A more relaxed and pliable roommate stretched out on the narrow bed.   
  
"Thanks."  
  
"You're welcome." Jim helped spread out the blankets.   
  
"So how'd you know McKnight was here?" Blair asked. "Did you hear him in the house? Or did you figure something was up when I didn't answer the phone. That was you on the phone, right?"  
  
Apparently, Blair's body was relaxed, but his brain was still in high cam. Jim sat on the bed. It was impossible to get irked with his friend. He could remember his early missions in the Army and how it took forever to settle back down to normal.  
  
"We found his car, figured he walked out. When you didn't answer the phone, I had to make sure," Jim said. "I could hear the four of you in the house."  
  
Blair looked puzzled. "Four?" Then his forehead smoothed out. "Oh, Clifford. You know? I thought he'd split. Gone for help."  
  
"I could hear his heartbeat. He was hiding in the bathroom or maybe in here."  
  
"Oh." Blair let a small yawn escape before continuing. "Poor kid. He must have been terrified. He did good though. You should've seen the way he laid out McKnight. And with a bag of marbles, too."  
  
Leaning over Blair's legs, Jim supported his upper body with a flat palm on the bed. "He's got the making of a true sentinel. You don't mess with their guides."  
  
Blair snorted. "Funny, Jim. But I think you're right. Annabel is watching his back. I talked to her some before all hell broke loose. She's instinctively teaching him how to avoid zones. I told her more, stuff she needs to know, but what's Clifford going to do when he gets older? She's not going to able to keep up with him."  
  
"Oh, I don't know." Jim smiled when another yawn from Blair caused the younger man to blink. "Things have a way of working out. He'll probably meet some crazy grad student. Maybe Annabel's supposed to train him until his true partner arrives in his life, one that will have the energy and intelligence to keep up."  
  
A faint smile appeared and Blair's posture relaxed even further. "Was that a compliment?"  
  
"I doubt it, Chief. We're talking about Clifford, remember?"  
  
Huffing quietly, Blair let his eyes close for a minute as he talked. "So, what you're saying is, not to worry? Clifford will be okay, right? And we can check up on him from time to time?"  
  
"That's what I'm saying."  
  
"Cool." Blair opened his eyes, appraising the man sitting next to him. "Did you have an Annabel when you were younger?"  
  
The light switch was within reach if Jim stretched. He flicked off the light. "If you stay quiet, I'll tell you a little of my time in Peru. The parts I remember, that is."  
  
"Love bedtime stories," Blair teased.  
  
Jim slapped Blair's good leg. "You want to hear this or not?"  
  
"I want, I so want, man."  
  
"Okay, then." Jim dropped down to sit on the braided rug, his back against the bed while he told Blair about his life in the jungle, the village, the tribe that helped him and the long months of waiting for the Army to send reinforcements. Blair asked a few questions about his senses and Jim answered. When Jim began to describe the jungle's different seasons, Blair was snoring.  
  
Jim rose, checking his watch. It was one-thirty in the morning.  
  
He fell asleep as soon as his feet were off the floor and didn't wake until he heard the sounds of a car approaching. With a groan, Jim got out of the sofa bed. Sunlight poured through the windows. He could tell by Blair's breathing, the other man was still asleep. The mantle clock told him it was almost ten. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept more than eight hours.   
  
Going to the kitchen window he saw Simon Banks' car parking next to the rental truck. Thankfully, the man parked on the passenger side of the truck. Jim didn't want to explain the damage on the other side. Pushing his feet into sneakers, he trotted out to the deck and around the house.  
  
"Simon!"  
  
Caught in the act of pulling his suitcase out of the back seat, Simon raised a hand in greeting before taking the cigar out of his mouth. "Hey, Jim. The scouting weekend was called off. The leader came down with shingles. Thought I'd join you guys for the rest of the week."  
  
Jim took one of the two suitcases. "Where's Darryl?"  
  
"Joan and her sister took him and his cousins to Disneyland. Last minute trip." He frowned. "I bet she sticks me with the Visa bill."   
  
They walked toward the house. Simon headed for the back door, but Jim tugged him toward the front. "Let me show you what I did."  
  
"Can it wait till we stow the bags?"  
  
Jim pointed to the cigar. "You want to finish that, right? We've got lawn chairs on the deck. No way are you going inside until it's put out."  
  
Simon gave in grudgingly, following Jim toward the beach. He made appropriate comments of satisfaction and pleasure when Jim showed him the painted stairs. They took a moment to enjoy the view.  
  
"So, you get that business with the local police figured out?" Simon asked.  
  
There was no more time for stalling. Jim sighed, dropping his chin on his chest cupping his palm on the back of his neck. "About that, Simon…"  
  
"Sandburg's okay, right?"  
  
"Yeah, he's fine."  
  
Sounds of puffing followed. Simon was watching him like a seasoned beat cop watches a nervous acting first-time shoplifter in a Wal-Mart. Jim took a deep breath. The best course of action was to say it fast, like when you know ripping off a strip of tape was bound to remove some body hair.  
  
"Well, it turned out Blair got involved in the planning of a criminal act, ah… forgery. Anyway the bad guys broke into the house –"  
  
"What?"  
  
"And roughed up Sandburg, then ran us off the road –"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Then kidnapped both of us and dumped us in the ocean, but we got rescued by a passing fishing boat, then one guy – the leader – broke back into the house –"  
  
"WHAT?"  
  
"Breaking down the back door and shooting the kitchen up some. Oh, and a little sheetrock damage, but –"  
  
"Jim! Jim! Whoa!" Simon waved both hands in the air. "Stop! Stop, already."  
  
Jim stopped. Maybe Simon wasn't one of those 'tape rippers' like Jim. He might have preferred his pain a little slower. "Okay."  
  
Eyes narrowed, smoke puffing out his nostrils, Simon studied his detective, his gaze traveling all the way down to his feet and back to the top of his head, lingering on the stitches before speaking. "You're okay, right?"  
  
"Right."  
  
"And Sandburg's okay?"  
  
"Yep."  
  
Looking back out at the ocean, Simon took a deep breath. "Then the rest of it is just the irritating little details that make life so interesting. Tell me this; did you catch the bastards that did all that?"  
  
"Yep."  
  
"Good." Simon looked down. "You really did do a nice job on those steps, Jim."  
  
"Thanks, Simon."  
  
Blair woke up starving. And with good reason, the small clock on the bed stand said it was noon. His leg was achy and his arm felt stiff.  
  
"Jim." Blair already hated this bed confinement stuff. Doctor Charlie had even considered a bedpan last night, but Jim had taken pity on him and promised the doctor he'd personally haul Blair back and forth to the bathroom. He sat up awkwardly and scooted back to lean against the headboard.  
  
The man walking into the bedroom carrying a tray of food was not Jim.  
  
"Simon!"  
  
"Afternoon, Sandburg." Simon set the small tray down on the mattress. "Didn't think you were going to wake up today."  
  
"What are you doing here? Where's Jim?"  
  
"I'm relaxing and Jim's on the phone talking to the Hertz Corporation. It's a good thing he bought rental insurance. You hungry?"  
  
"Starving, man." Blair reached for a sandwich. The plate was piled high with them. Simon sat on the bed's edge and helped himself to one as well. It was egg salad and tasted like heaven. "Jim told you?"  
  
"Yes, he did."  
  
Blair took another bite, then tried to talk. "Sorry."  
  
"It's okay. Apparently some guy named Jack is coming by to help fix everything. Robert will never know. A deputy Nettle called a bit ago and said they found the espresso machine, too."  
  
"Cool."  
  
Jim walked in, carrying a kitchen chair in one hand and a six pack of coke in the other. "They also found evidence of the journal he was forging."  
  
"Really?" Blair accepted a cold can of soda. "Thanks."  
  
Jim set the chair down and sat. They were going to have a 'tea party' in his bedroom. Blair smiled.  
  
"Yeah, real old looking paper. He was using a fountain pen and even making his own ink. The guy must be certifiable." Jim helped himself to a sandwich. "You need a pain pill, Chief? Looking a little rough around the edges."  
  
"Maybe later," Blair told him. His body was hurting enough to justify it. "Let's see what happens later." Looking back at Simon, Blair shook he head. "Can't believe you got to come down. Where are you going to sleep?"  
  
"There's a roll away in the shed," Jim said. "I didn't see it before."  
  
"Yep, Jim will find it very comfortable." Simon gave Jim a superior look when Jim seemed surprised. "Hey, it's my cousin's place. I should get the sofa bed."  
  
"Okay, I'll move the bed in here with Blair," Jim relented. "Simon brought our mail down, Sandburg. I put yours on the bed stand."  
  
Blair hadn't noticed the stack of mail. He reached out and picked it up, sifting through. He opened the thickest envelope. "Great, something to read while I'm laid up. Ah… wait a sec. This isn't mine. It's addressed to a Blake Sanderson on Prescott Street." Blair held it up. "Looks interesting, though. Says here he's be–"   
  
When the official looking envelope was snatched from his hand Blair protested. "Hey!"  
  
Jim held the envelope out of reach. "No, Chief. Not again. This is how it all started last time. No more."  
  
"Come on, Jim. Lighten up." Blair laughed at him. "You're overreacting."  
  
"Sounds like words of wisdom to me, Sandburg," Simon added, nodding sagely.  
  
"Oh, give me a break, guys. What're the odds that letter contains some criminal act in the making?"  
  
"Knowing you, Chief?" Jim said solemnly. "I'd take those odds."  
  
End.  
  
Author's note: Yes, I thumped Blair pretty good in this one. I picked on Jim some, too. The beach house is actually a place called 'Beards Hollow' just north of Cape Disappointment State Park on the Washington side of the mouth of the Columbia River. I started the story while on vacation there in March. I was in the mood for some H/C, sorry if it's too much. G. The interpretive center is real, so are the underground bunkers. The stuff about Lewis and Clark is factual, their 200 year anniversary ends in 2005. Historians do believe two other members of the Discovery Corps kept journals, but they were never found. Don't you just love a mystery? 


End file.
